Nothing But Flowers
by delightful-fear
Summary: An AU set 30 years in the future…But this is not a dystopia. Some things are better, some things worse, many things unchanged. John is happy with his life as a successful surgeon. Why is he feeling so attracted to Sherlock, a man who is his opposite in so many ways? Even if he gave into temptation, there's no way this can be more than a quick, hot fling, right? (AU, Johnlock)
1. Chapter 1

"See you in a week, Mrs. Krabappel." John said as his patient stepped into the waiting room. Her movements were careful, leaning heavily on her walker with each step.

Looking down at his tablet, he called out the next name. "Joseph Agrinya."

The large man stood up with a wide grin, his dark skin and huge frame such a contrast from the waiting room full of mostly small Caucasian octogenarians. He moved forward with his crutches, an assistant at his side watching him closely.

John nodded in welcome, and waved the man into the hallway. "Exam room four." Walking behind the man, he looked for other signs of injury or misalignment aside from his right leg.

Once his new patient was settled, John reviewed the information on his tablet. "So, Mr. Agrinya, can you tell me how you got your injury?"

His assistant, a younger, slim man, puffed up in affront. "You don't know? It's been on every channel!"

The patient made a settling gesture to his friend. Looking back at John, he gave a slow, easy smile. "Please, Doctor, call me Joe. I was tripped by the Forward of the other team on Monday."

"Here. You can watch it yourself." The assistant shoved his own tablet into John's hands.

A video was queued up, and John watched it, cringing slightly as he watched Joe falling, and the slo-mo replay. "Yes, I can see your knee was overextended there." One advantage of having professional athletes for clients was often seeing footage of their injury occurring.

He looked through the scans that had been done already. Getting up, he performed a quick physical examination on Joe. The athlete didn't show many signs of pain, even when John moved the swollen joint. Many athletes were used to dealing with high levels of pain.

"Definitely an ACL tear, which we can repair with a biogenic ligament. It will take about two months to heal before you can ease into retraining though." John said, watching the man's expression closely. Two months was most of his season, and he wouldn't be at a competitive level for months after that.

Joe didn't look pleased, but nodded in acceptance. "I expected as much."

"I will need a full list of all your performance enhancing drugs, vitamins and other procedures you have done over the years." John said, again watching his patient closely.

The man glanced away, shifting in his chair.

The assistant shook his head. "You can't expect Mr. Agrinya to give you that information. It is highly confidential."

Standing up, John set down his tablet. "Well, I cannot proceed without full disclosure. I will give you the name of some other surgeons you can consult with."

The assistant blustered, grumbling and swearing, as he stood up and passed Joe his crutches.

The athlete remained sitting, his dark eyes looking over John assessingly. "How can I know this information won't get out?"

"I am bound by law under Doctor-Patient Confidentiality. My staff have all signed non disclosure agreements." John calmly stood his ground.

Joe waved him back into his chair, leaning forward. "You understand I play in the DADT league. Enhancements are allowed."

The assistant nodded. "Joseph Agrinya is one of the top ten players. Many would like to follow his regime."

Sighing, John tried to keep his expression neutral. "You have come to me for a reason. You know I'm the best. I wouldn't be in that position if I leaked private information."

Joe gazed at John over long, steepled fingers, unflinching as a panther stalking prey. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "Fine. Alberto will send the information to your office. Shall we schedule the surgery?"

Feeling a surge of success, John nodded, standing back up. "Please discuss it with my staff before you leave." He shook hands with both men, and left the exam room.

…

The April weather was mild as John walked home, his pace brisk along the familiar streets. Many other pedestrians and cyclists quietly moved by him, travelling in all directions in the city core, mostly heading home as well.

In his apartment, he put a pot of water on the stove on high, and changed into casual clothes. By the time he came back to the kitchen, the water was boiling. He added the brown rice, lowered the temperature to a simmer, and put the lid on.

Going up the stairs, he was soon on the roof of the building. Just seeing the calm green space, he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as his tension unwound. After scanning his key card, he read the notifications from the resident farmer and moved to a plot, pulling on garden gloves from a bin.

"Good evening, Francesca." John smiled in greeting to his neighbor from the fourth floor.

She looked up, pushing a long strand of dark hair off her pretty face, giving him a warm smile. "Dr. John." Digging in the soil, she pulled out a weed and flung it into a nearby pail.

John took up a trowel and worked on his side of the patch. "Why are the weeds already so much bigger than the potato plants?"

"Clarence said they are native to this climate. It's an unfair advantage." She threw more weeds into the pail gracefully.

John whistled in appreciation. "You got quite the arm there. Some of my patients would be impressed."

Flicking her long hair back flirtatiously, Francesca gave him a laughing glance. "Anytime you want to introduce me to any of your wealthy ballers, you know I'd be up for it."

They continued joking around as they worked, until most of the patch was clear and the pail full.

John stood up, stretching his back and shoulders, the old injury giving a small twinge. "I'll empty this. See you later."

Francesca nodded, moving over to a nearby bench and taking off her gloves. Other neighbors were relaxing similarly on other benches, looking over their completed work in satisfaction.

After dumping the weeds in the compost pile, John collected vegetables for his supper, shaking off as much soil as he could.

Back in his apartment, John took the rice off the heat, and put the vegetables in the sink. After a quick shower, he came back just wearing boxers and a robe, and got busy washing and chopping up the vegetables. He whisked together a quick sauce, cooked the vegetables in a wok, added tofu and the sauce, before spooning it over the rice.

The meal was satisfying and tasty, and John poured himself a big glass of red wine after he washed the dishes.

Leaning back in his lounge chair, John scrolled through his music collection and picked John Coltrane on random. Closing his eyes, he let the music flow over him as he enjoyed the wine. Simple pleasures are the best.

Pouring a second glass of wine, John looked at the time. It wasn't that late yet. He had time.

Lowering the lights a little more, he felt a twinge of anticipation as he opened his closet door and opened a box on the floor. He quickly stripped, and then pulled the SensiSuit out of the box. It pulled on like a thin wetsuit, covering him snugly from his ankles to halfway up his neck. Taking another couple items from the box, he headed back to the living room and settled onto a reclining chair.

"PlayLand." John said as he got comfortable, everything he needed in easy reach on the table beside him.

His computer projected a large image on the wall, a deep red background with a friendly looking avatar of an attractive brunette. "Welcome back, Captain Jackoff. Would you prefer to explore the cyber or virtual world tonight?"

"Virtual." John said.

The screen moved to a different one, with many scenery images. "Please pick your partner preference and setting."

The avatar's voice was a sultry woman's, and John paused for a second, thinking what he was in the mood for tonight. "Male. Office setting."

"Please check that your avatar and voice settings are correct, and say 'Enter' when you are ready. Thank you for cumming to Playland." The avatar gave a mischievous grin before disappearing from the screen.

The screen showed John's profile now, with his avatar selections and voice preferences. He stayed with his most frequent settings. "Enter." Pulling on the headset, he relaxed back against the chair.

It looked like he was in an office building hallway, and he reached out to open a glass door to step into a law firm. The receptionist nodded at him in greeting. "Please sit down. Your appointment is in a few minutes."

With some simple head and finger motions, his avatar was sitting in the waiting room. Turning his head, John looked at the other clients. There was a couple in their twenties, arguing back and forth in harsh whispers. On his other side, an elderly man was sitting with a dark haired woman, likely his daughter.

John looked around some more. Perhaps he should have picked a nightclub scene instead to explore. Maybe he should leave this office and try a different one.

A noise to one side had him automatically looking that way. The receptionist beckoned him and he had his avatar follow her into an office. A man in a suit rose from the desk and came around it to shake John's hand. The receptionist closed the door as she left.

"Thanks for coming in today." A low baritone voice rumbled in John's ear, and he could feel the warmth of the other man, the light pressure on his hand from the handshake.

Even though the other man's true identity was hidden like John's was, he couldn't help but look over the other man's avatar, and felt a ping of attraction. So often, players chose exaggerated beefy bodies and Hollywood-style bland good looks. It became quite dull. This man's avatar was a man only slightly taller than average, with a lean, muscular frame and pale skin. His dark hair was in a short style, and his eyes a light green.

Looking down at his character's username, John couldn't help but chuckle. "Dr. Feelgood?"

The other man smiled slowly, a bit wickedly. "I'll make you feel alright."

"What should I call you? Doctor?" Somehow, it didn't appeal to John. It reminded him of work too much.

His new friend shook his head. "How about Frank?"

"You can call me Jack." John said. It was close enough to his own name to catch his attention.

Frank seemed to move closer, and John instinctively moved back, his avatar bumping against the edge of the desk and losing his balance, ending up sitting on it.

"Woah, are you OK?" Frank's hands clutched John's upper arms, steadying him.

The SensiSuit and headset made it feel so real. A handsome man bending over him, a concerned look on his face. The feel of his hands on him. John looked up and nodded.

Frank's grip lightened up, and he slid his hands down John's arms. John shivered in response, lifting his hands to rest them on Frank's waist, tugging him closer.

In reality, John had lifted his arms, putting his hands on the image that seemed to be really before him. The SensiSuit gave him the sensation of touching Frank. Frank's suit passed on the sensations, and he did move closer, seeming to stand between John's legs.

Virtual sex was not as good as real sex, of course, but John found it more stimulating than masturbating on his own to a cyber. The headset captured his movements, matching it to what was being displayed in their fantasy. The SensiSuits passed along sensations surprisingly well, like pressure and temperature . One of the biggest turn-ons for John was hearing a real person's voice, their reactions, even if the voice was augmented slightly to prevent real-world recognition. A cyber was never as unpredictable as a real, live person. They could be from anywhere else on the planet, but appeared in the same fantasy space with John now.

Most people talked more, flirted and got to know each other a little, before touching like this. John normally preferred it that way, but there was something about Frank's directness that appealed to John tonight, and he went with it.

Hands moved to his back, pulling John into a hug. Virtual hugs were remarkably good, very close to real ones. A warm, firm body pressed against his, strong arms around him, hands splayed out on his back.

Turning his head, John pressed his mouth against the image of the man so close to him, against the high collar of his SensiSuit. Since John's suit didn't cover his face, he felt nothing himself, but Frank's breath caught at the sensation he felt. He felt the warmth and light pressure of the kiss.

Sliding his hands up and down Frank's sides slowly, John kissed along his collarbone, heading towards his shoulder. Hearing his faster breathing, feeling the way his hands kneaded into John's back and seeing his reactions were very exciting. He loved giving his partners pleasure, found it incredibly arousing himself.

"Mmmm Jack, that feels good." Frank moaned, titling his head back. "Want to get naked?"

The request was a little jarring, wanting such intimacy so fast, but John found the direct way Frank asked for what he wanted refreshing somehow. He nodded, and gestured to that setting on his own screen. Immediately, his avatar seemed nude in the scene. A second later, Frank's avatar was as well. No awkward fumbling.

Things got even more intense then, both of them touching, exploring, kissing. Even some light biting. The senses of taste and smell weren't there, but it was still exciting to see your partner's reactions.

They were now lying on top of the desk, touching, kissing over suit areas. Frank's hand slid up John's thigh, moving onwards. It felt good, and he arched his hips up in response, encouraging more.

Chuckling, John glanced downwards. Frank's hand was on his virtual cock. "Um, wait a sec..."

Frank drew back, leaning away from John. "Yeah, me too."

Even though the virtual image showed Frank fumbling around with an invisible object, John could hear enough sounds to know Frank was doing what he was doing. The SensiSuit had a removable codpiece, allowing easy access. There was the squelch noise of lube coming out of a bottle, the soft wet noises of it being spread over skin, the soft click of snaps closing, the creek of a chair.

John checked that his own device was in the correct position. The base snapped on to his suit, keeping it in place hands-free. There was enough lube to be comfortable as he pushed into it, the snug fit making him breath a bit quicker, trying to keep control, make things last. He was already so hard, so aroused, it wouldn't take much tonight.

"Good?" John asked, a little breathlessly.

Frank gave a slow, pleased smile. "Mmmm hmmm..."

John gasped as his device started up, already at a level two. It felt like a firm, steady stroke, and he arched his hips up in response.

In retaliation, he gestured, making Frank's device start at the same level, and felt gratified at the soft moans and the way his body shifted against him.

Past experience made everything comfortable, yet exciting, and John sunk deeper into the fantasy with Frank. Seeing how his image reacted to the various settings, speeding up, slowing down, and feeling Frank do the same with his. They still had their hands free to touch, stroking over their suits, the sensation adding to the more direct stimulation of the device. John loved being with a partner, never knowing where he would be touched next, not knowing what setting he would select next on his device.

Most partners would ease through the seven preset levels sequentially, light strokes becoming harder and faster over time. Perhaps edging a little, going to a higher level, before easing back down, letting the other person cool off before giving them more. Building, building...

Frank was not like that. His patterns were more unpredictable, skipping over levels, staying longer than expected. It shouldn't have worked, but it did. John found himself tensing up, trying to catch his breath, his orgasm hard and intense. Faster than he had expected, but still satisfying.

Finally, when he caught his breath, John gave Frank a small smile. "Woah. Well, I don't know if I can match that, but I will certainly try." He slid his hands up Frank's long legs, spreading them apart.

Frank's hands caught his, pulling them away. "I'm good, actually."

John frowned a little in confusion. "But you didn't..."

"Yes, I did. When you...It totally worked for me." Frank said, shifting to sit up on the desk.

John matched his movement. He felt a little disappointed that he hadn't been able to witness Frank's peak. "Well, we should do this again sometime. I still feel like you did more of the heavy lifting tonight."

"You liked it?" Frank asked, looking closely at John. The headset did pick up expressions, displaying them on the avatar well.

It seemed redundant after John's obviously enthusiastic response only minutes before, but he didn't mind giving extra praise if it encouraged Frank to find him again for another session. "I loved it, truly. You are unique on here."

The compliment seemed to please Frank. "I've liked being with you also. Most people don't like me, or my approach."

"I like you...". John sighed at the limitations of the system. "In fact, I really just want to kiss you right now. A real kiss."

Frank's eyes widened a little at that, and it took a long minute before his gaze dropped and he said softly, "Me too."

The admission sent a pang of longing and warmth through John. "Um, good. So, Friday, same time?" Was two days from now too soon? Pushy? His heart beat faster as he waited for a response, hoping Frank was actually someone on the system who was interested in another session. That he wouldn't agree to just placate John, but ghost him later.

He got a small smile and a quick nod, before Frank signed out.

...

-A/N: Thanks for giving my new story a try. It will likely be 15-20 chapters long. I will hopefully be posting at least one chapter a week.

-I hope you will be patient with me as I reveal more about this world, little by little. Things unclear in this chapter will become clearer.

-Warning: This story is set 30 Years in the future (with John and Sherlock still at their current ages). I thought it would be fun to explore what changes could occur during our lifetime, and how they would affect our daily lives. This is not a dystopia. There will be some things better, some things worse, and many things pretty much the same. I won't be going crazy sci-fi on you, and I'm basing most things on some research when possible (with notes at the end of the chapters).

-Sex Suit: Virtual Reality combined with a suit that makes it feel like another person is touching you is already being developed. Things will likely be even better in 30 years, but you get the idea.

-Teledildonics: You can already get sex toys your lover can control with an app from across the country.

-Toys for Boys: Not as big a selection as vibrators, but guys have automated toys with various speeds too.

-(Nothing But) Flowers: The title comes from this 1988 song by The Talking Heads, a New York rock band (active 1975-1991). Wikipedia: "…the group helped to pioneer new wave music by integrating elements of punk, art rock, funk, and world music with avant-garde sensibilities and an anxious, clean-cut image." Their biggest hits included 'Burning Down the House', 'Psycho Killer' and 'Once in a Lifetime'.


	2. Chapter 2

"If everyone could sit down, we will begin." An older Black British woman said calmly as she sat at the head at the table.

John carried his mug of tea over to the table and took his place. Looking around, he recognized many of the other faces and nodded to them in acknowledgment.

Picking up her tablet, Dr. Foncha paused. "If everyone could go to the summary page, we will do a quick review to begin."

Everyone fumbled with their tablets, looking back at her once they were ready.

"So, we are here today to complete the medical review of Paolo Baresi. He died at the age of 34, and his family is talking with lawyers about a wrongful death case." Dr. Foncha looked at the man to her right. "Let's go around the table and introduce ourselves, and briefly say our role in his care first."

The Asian British man nodded. "I'm Dr. Park, Paolo's primary care physician."

"I'm Theresa Santos, his nutritionist." The woman was an attractive brunette in her early thirties, and John had met her before.

John shifted to sit straighter when it was his turn. "Dr. Watson, Orthopedic Surgeon."

Around the table, his psychologist, physiotherapist, and massage therapist introduced themselves as well.

"Sherlock Holmes, chemist." The final person said, and Dr. Foncha nodded and started the review.

John looked at Sherlock subtly as the meeting went on. He had heard his name many times over the years, but never met him in person. From his reputation, John was expecting him to be older, but he appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He was more attractive in person as well, the pictures and quick videos of him in the news not capturing the intelligence in his light green eyes. He was dressed in a black suit, obviously bespoke, showing off the success he'd had in his career, even at his young age.

"Dr. Watson?" Dr. Foncha was looking his way, and John looked down at his tablet, pulled out of his appraisal of Sherlock.

"Um, yes..." John went to his page of the document. "Paolo first came to my office for his Achilles' tendon, when he was 29. He recovered well, showing good overall health. When I operated on his knee last year, I could see the ravages playing professionally so many years had had on his body. He didn't recover as quickly from that surgery, and his weakened immune system had a harder time keeping out secondary infections."

The other health professionals discussed their dealing with the athlete, most showing they had worked with him for years, and noticed a decline in his health lately.

Sherlock was the last one to speak, and John paid close attention. It was also a good excuse to look openly at the attractive man.

"I have only been working with Paolo for three years. He was having a harder time keeping up with the younger athletes, so I mostly focused on drugs that would enhance his endurance and speed." Sherlock said calmly, steepling his fingers under his chin.

Dr. Foncha leaned forward. "You didn't submit a full list of the drugs and doses you used with him. We need this to complete his file."

Sherlock shook his head. "As you know, I am in a highly competitive business and that knowledge is proprietary. I will be attending his autopsy on Thursday, and if I think my treatments had an effect, I will release the appropriate information to you."

"This is ridiculous!" Dr. Park slammed his hand down on the table, glaring at Sherlock. "How can we fully assess his health without complete disclosure? Who knows what chemical cocktail this Frankenstein had him on?"

Dr. Foncha made soothing motions towards him. "Your concerns are valid. This isn't the first time we have faced this situation with professional athletes, and sadly won't be the last." She looked over at Sherlock. "I know it is useless to press you to release all the information, but we will work with whatever give us, for now."

Sherlock seemed unruffled by Dr. Park's outburst, and nodded in acknowledgment to Dr. Foncha. It was obviously routine that his work had gotten such a reaction.

"As Mr. Holmes mentioned, the autopsy is Thursday and I will distribute the report once available. I will be in touch with you all individually if this proceeds to legal action to work with the defense lawyers." Dr. Foncha concluded, ending the meeting.

John hung back as the attendees disbursed, timing his leaving to match Theresa's. "So, would you have time for lunch with me?"

As they walked down the hospital corridor, Theresa shook her head regretfully. "I wish I could, John, but my boyfriend is coming around. Going for a picnic in the park."

"Hmmm, a new relationship?" John teased lightly, feeling a pang of disappointment that she wasn't available. They had known each other a few years, and he had always enjoyed working with her. Unfortunately, one or both of them seemed to be in a relationship, never seeming to be single at the same time to finally go on a date. Explore if they could have more beyond the attraction and light flirting.

She shrugged a shoulder. "I suppose so. Two months. He's in New Energy."

John gave a low whistle at that. "Oh, so he's rich and he's got you. Some blokes have all the luck." His smile showed there were no hard feelings.

"Give me a break." Theresa scoffed. "You aren't exactly pining in the corner for me. Is there anyone single under fifty who works here you haven't dated?"

Laughing at the observation he couldn't really deny, John looked to the side and saw Sherlock standing with Dr. Park, arguing intensely with lowered voices. The doctor seemed to be the aggressive one, stepping into the chemist's space, looking like he was almost ready to start swinging punches.

John nudged Theresa to direct her attention to it as they passed. "I've never seen Dr. Park so riled up. He is usually such a calm, rational man."

"Well, you know what people are like about sports. Even though the DADT league is amazingly popular, many people still strongly object to it. Want things to go back to the old way." Theresa sighed.

"There is still the pure league for them. No drugs, no unnatural enhancements, full accounting of everything they put into their bodies and frequent random testing." John said as they got back to Theresa's department.

Theresa pulled out her phone, glancing at it. "I don't like the new league that much either. But I'm a nutritionist. I want everyone to eat organic, locally-sourced and vegan ideally. People are still going to choose processed food loaded with chemicals I can hardly pronounce, and I have to put aside my personal beliefs and give them the best care I can."

John gave her a lopsided grin. "You have to go meet your boyfriend now, don't you?" He leaned in to give her a quick hug. "It was good seeing you again."

As he walked over to the tube station, he hardly noticed the good weather. He would have to contact a friend or two he knew at the hospital to keep an eye on Theresa for him. Watch for signs she was single again and give him a head's up. They really had so much in common and he respected her humor and intelligence.

One of the things he clicked with her most on was diet and lifestyle choices, both favoring sustainable ones whenever possible. When he had moved into the cooperative housing a few years ago, she had given him some great information about nearby stores and restaurants to check out.

Over the years, he had dated a lot, men or women, whoever seemed attractive and mutually interested. In his twenties, it had all been about drinking, getting high and sex. As he got older, he rarely got drunk or high, and preferred to get to know someone well before sleeping with them. He had been in several relationships lasting many months, but rarely over a year. Now that he was in his forties, he really wanted to find someone for a long term relationship.

In the meantime, he dated a little, and kept his sexual needs at bay with apps like PlayLand. He got the casual sex with strangers thrill without exposing himself to STIs or emotional entanglements. It was even more exciting lately, the sessions with Frank becoming even more intense. They had met up on the site every other day for three times now, and John shifted, thinking it would be great to go home right now for another session.

Chuckling to himself as he got on the train, John couldn't think of the last time he played hooky from work to have sex. Ages. He was a responsible doctor now, with an office and patients probably already in his waiting room.

...

"Paolo Eduardo Baresi." The pathologist read off the tablet, along with his date of birth and death, for the recording of the autopsy. "Pathologist Dr. Molly Hooper conducting this post-mortem. Witnesses are Dr. John Watson, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Like Molly, John and Sherlock were wearing blue surgical gowns tied over their clothing and caps. John couldn't help noticing his eyes seemed more blue than green today, but looked away before his perusal was too obvious.

Unzipping the body bag, Molly moved the body on to the autopsy table with power lift devices. Her motions were fast and self-assured, the result of years of experience. She seemed quite comfortable as she arranged the body and began the external examination.

Her dark brown eyes scanned over the athlete. His olive toned skin was naturally paler in death, but otherwise mostly smooth and unblemished. She did note an inflamed injection spot on his inner thigh, and John didn't miss the slight glare she sent Sherlock's way before continuing.

Her manner was professional and objective, but as the autopsy progressed, John could see her expression tightening slightly with repressed emotions.

After the Y-incision was done, and his rib cage removed, his organs were on clear display. Even though it had been years since John had worked on a cadaver in medical school, he could see the abnormalities.

The heart was the first thing she removed from the chest cavity. "545 grams." She stated as she took the organ off the scale, and placed it on a stainless steel surgical tray.

John was shocked. The average heart was about the size of a clenched fist, and about 300 grams. Athletic training would account for increasing the heart size, possibly up to 500 grams even, but this was almost 10% higher than even that.

He glanced at Sherlock but his face was impassive, his bright eyes taking in every detail.

As she removed the other organs and weighed them, it hit John again how young this athlete was. He had been a lively, charming man, kind to the health care staff even when he was in pain. Never acting like an entitled, top athlete. He should have lived a long and happy life, instead of lying on this autopsy table.

Molly lifted out the liver, and John stepped closer. "Wait." He looked down at the organ in her gloved hands, the surface mottled with darker red irregular spots. "What is that?"

She examined the organ for a minute. "Perhaps hepatis. We will know better after more testing."

When the autopsy was completed, Molly turned off the recording with a voice command. "Thank you for coming out today, Gentlemen. The final report will be done once we finish testing the tissue samples."

Sherlock nodded and left, leaving the scrubs in a laundry bin.

John paused after removing his scrubs, seeing Molly's expression of distaste as she watched the chemist leave. "You don't seem to like him?"

"Our modern day Dr. Frankenstein? No." Her eyes flashed as she spun around, transferring the body back to the gurney. "At first, I was a little intrigued by him, found him attractive even, but seeing him around his former patients has made me face up to his true nature."

"What is it?" John asked directly.

She scoffed. "Most people working in health care are there because they want to help people. Not him, though. It's all about the science to him and the people he 'treats' are just test subjects."

Nodding, John gestured at the athlete, covered now with a sheet. "What were your impressions so far about him?"

"I saw the evidence of your surgeries, and that he healed relatively well from them. There are certainly also signs of long term use of performance enhancing drugs. They may be hard to identify exactly, but I'm thinking EPO and some anabolic steroids."

John was a little surprised. "I can see EPO for increased endurance, but he wasn't that bulky in his muscles."

Molly shrugged. "Sherlock's chemical cocktail usually includes some. The liver appearance is a good indicator."

"And his enlarged heart?"

She nodded. "Plus, slightly smaller testicles."

John wanted to ask more, but Molly pushed the gurney out the door, taking it back to the holding area.

...

Exiting the hospital, he was surprised to see Sherlock sitting on a bench, smoking. An elderly man in a hospital gown was sitting beside him, looking a little disoriented.

"What are you doing? You can't smoke here!" John confronted him with a glare.

Sherlock remained calm. "What, him? He doesn't mind." He waved the hand holding his cigarette the senior's direction and only got a couple slow blinks in response.

John shook his head. "The man obviously has dementia."

"Exactly. He won't remember this in five minutes."

Rolling his eyes, John tried to take a calming breath. "So, are you worried about the autopsy results?"

Tapping off the cigarette ash with a long finger, Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Why would I be worried about that?"

His calm demeanour made John want to punch him in the face. Hard. Several times. And he considered himself a pacifist.

Huffing slightly, John tried to rein in his emotions. "Because that man lying dead on the gurney before his 35th birthday shows evidence of your handiwork all over him."

"Of course he does. That's what he paid me for."

"And did he pay extra for the enlarged heart and liver damage? The premature death?"

Finishing his cigarette, Sherlock flicked the butt away. "He was well aware of the risks and signed a consent form."

John stared at where the discarded butt laid in a flower bed, disgusted at the flagrant littering on top of everything else. "So that allows you to use him as a guinea pig for your untested drugs? Things no one has tested for the long term damage?"

Sherlock shrugged as he stood up. "Paolo and my other clients are aware of the risks. No guts, no glory."

John followed him as he ambled away. "Do any of your clients live past five years on your 'treatments'?"

That stopped the taller man, and he turned to face John. "Don't act so holy and pure. You have operated on many athletes in the DADT league."

"The difference being that I am a licensed doctor and follow approved procedures." John defended himself, standing his ground.

Sherlock's full lips tightened into a mocking smirk. "And get paid handsomely for it."

Part of John wanted to defend himself against this, but there was a grain of truth that he couldn't deny. Taking a handful of top DADT athletes as patients each year and charging them exorbitant fees covered the operating costs and allowed him to help the more needy seniors and lower mobility people who came to his practice. NHS didn't cover as much as it used to.

He settled for shrugging, most of the bluster knocked out of him. "I don't lose sleep over the things I do in my work."

That comment got Sherlock looking at him for a few heartbeats, his blue-green eyes steady on his. "Neither do I." The statement firm and irrefutable.

John shut his eyes in frustration, turning away from this infuriating man. In this world, he had come across so many who justified their horrible actions somehow. Was it greed? Self-delusion? Willful blindness? Or simply a complete lack of compassion for other people?

There was no way to get through to people like this. He knew from experience. But yet he still tried, letting out a long sigh as he looked back at Sherlock, searching for even a hint of humanity in those cool, distant eyes. "Can you truly not see that you are poisoning people with your concoctions? People are _dying_. We just came out of an autopsy, for fuck's sake."

By now, they were a fair distance from the hospital entrance, standing in the garden area that surrounded the property. Sherlock leaned against a sandstone low wall, crossing his arms nonchalantly over his chest. "What would you call a life well lived, a happy, good life, John Watson? A house in the country with a garden, a wife and 1.5 children? Married until death do you part?"

The change of the subject was jarring, and John struggled to find an answer. What was Sherlock getting at? Was that what he personally thought a successful life was, more or less?

"Well, isn't that generally what most people strive for in life? A family and a stable home?" John replied.

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps that is what all the proles want." He stood up, taking a step towards John. "But we aren't working with them, are we? We have the top 1% of the top 1%. The athletes who have worked at their sport their whole lives to get where they are. Sacrificed so much to be there. Do you really think a house and spouse is enough to satisfy them?"

Before John could respond, Sherlock took another step closer. "For them, it isn't enough to simply exist. They are like gods among us, able to do things 99.9% of us can't, and they want the glory, the adoration and wealth deserving of their station. They would rather fly close to the sun and risk being burnt up by it than playing it safe."

John swallowed hard. Sherlock, standing so close, looking down at him so intently, as he made his points was a lot to take. His intelligence and passion for his work shone through, and even though in his gut, John disagreed with him, part of him admired his bravery in standing up unflinchingly for what he believed in. Part of him felt drawn to the man even more for it.

"It sounds pretty shallow to me. Putting all that time, energy and money into becoming the best in a sport." John shrugged. "They end up rich and famous for a few years, until they get too old or injured to stay in the game. And that's if their 'regime' doesn't kill them before they retire. Their records get beaten soon enough by others, and they are quickly forgotten."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "When they are playing at the top of their game, they push at the limits at what we think humans can do. Always striving to be stronger, faster, smarter."

He took a step back, and John could breathe a little easier. But before he could respond, Sherlock pinned him with a cool, level look. "It boils down to the question of whether you want a life of safe middle class boredom, or soar to the highest heights? Risk crashing and burning, but live life to the fullest, even if it doesn't last long?"

With that, Sherlock spun around and walked quickly away, his long legs quickly covering ground.

John sunk down against the low stone wall, feeling a storm of conflicting emotions.

...

The autopsy and argument with Sherlock left John feeling unsettled for days. He tried behaving like normal at work and in his building, but he still got a few concerned glances. He ended up holing himself away in his own apartment, having some private time to read fiction and listen to music. Taking some time to get back to himself.

The second night of that still left him wound up, and he ended up pulling on his SensiSuit, needing some mindless distraction and sexual release.

As he entered PlayLand, he couldn't deny to himself that he hoped Frank would be online. They usually made plans for their next session, but they had forgotten last time to make arrangements.

"Enter." John said, once he was settled in his chair with everything he needed nearby.

Barely a minute later, there was a private invitation to enter DrFeelgood's room, and he gladly accepted. As soon as the screen switched over and John saw Frank, he felt a surge of relief and a spark of pure lust. They both stepped forward and were hugging tight.

"Mmmm I needed this. Needed you." John murmured, shifting to press even closer. The warmth of Frank's body was against his, his long arms wrapped tight around him.

Frank moved to kiss along John's shoulder. "Me too. Let's get naked." His clothes disappeared, and Frank tugged him towards the huge bed, the only furniture in this virtual room.

His urgency was exciting, and John made a gesture to the part of the screen to remove his clothes as well. Normally, he didn't jump into being physical with people this way, in person or online, but Frank was the one who bent all the rules. He was worth bending rules for.

Rolling around together on the bed, they were both touching and kissing all over each other. They had come to know each other better by now, knew what type of caresses got the biggest reactions. It was very intense, very fast, in a way it hadn't been for years.

They soon parted to attach the sex toys to their suits. The stroker John preferred lately was self-lubricating, and could mimic light strokes to hard, intense pumping that could have him orgasming in seconds. There was even a suction feature than rivaled the best blowjob. And being mechanical, it could keep up a good pace and didn't tire or get sore. It allowed for a combination of sensations into seven settings, increasing in intensity. Personalized for what he liked best, like the light twisting stroke combined with licks around the head on setting number two.

He only gave strangers access to choose between the seven settings, letting them determine which one and for how long, before the switched to other ones. It worked well most times, with John getting variations on sensations he liked, kept a little off guard by another person at the controls. Revving it up to level 7 until he was on the edge, and down to a lower level to cool him down. Teasing him with too brief moments on the middle levels, until he was panting and begging for more. They did it for him, and he did it for them.

Somehow, with Frank, it was even better. Perhaps he was just better at reading John, his movements and expressions, the little gasps and moans of pleasure. Moving between the settings in a way that was always what John needed right then, pushing his pleasure higher and higher.

Tonight was no different, John already arching off the bed and begging for more. Frank was kissing up his inner thigh as the stroker felt like another mouth, teasing him with swirling licks and sucking kisses on the tip. "Yes, yes...so good..."

Then he felt a soft bite, the sensation of teeth deliberately moving over his erection. He froze, half to hold back his orgasm from the sensation, and half in confusion. "What...What was that?" John gasped. It was not part of any of his settings.

Frank chuckled at John's reaction. "Oh, I wanted to mix things up a little, now that I know what you like."

"But how? My settings are password protected." John was able to pull back enough from the sensual haze to question this.

Frank smirked a little. "In a manner of speaking. Took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox."

The answer caused a few different emotions within John. Irritation that Frank had breeched his privacy, and had acted in such a highhanded manner. A bit flattered that he had taken some of his own time to bother doing it at all. Surely that was a sign that Frank thought about him when they weren't together like John did. And one other emotion. Curiosity.

"Um...did you change the other settings as well?" John asked, motivated mostly by his unflagging arousal.

Frank gave a low, evil chuckle that made things tighten low in John's body. "Mmmm Hmmm... I've gotten to know what you like. Do you want to try them out?"

The question was accompanied by kisses at the base of John's neck. It was completely unfair, and completely effective. John soon found himself nodding in agreement as he moaned in anticipation.

...

DADT league: A play on the old "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" mantra in the US armed forces about homosexuality, the new sports league is referred to by most people as "Don't Ask, Don't Test". The new sports league knows that most athletes use performance enhancing drugs (PED), and have stopped trying to police it. I've deliberately left the specific sport a bit vague, as DADT leagues will probably be the way most sports go in the future.

Hepatis: "Peliosis hepatis is an uncommon vascular condition characterised by multiple, randomly distributed, blood-filled cavities throughout the liver." - Wikipedia. It can be seen in a wide range of conditions from AIDS to anabolic steroid use.

EPO: Common name for Epoetin, a synthetic form of the hormone erythropoietin, often used by endurance athletes. It mimics the hormone, increasing production of red blood cells and hemoglobin, resulting in improved movement of oxygen to muscles. It became common in the 1990s among competitive cyclists and allegedly contributed to at least 18 deaths. It may increase the risk of stroke, heart attack and pulmonary embolism (deadly blood clot in the lung).

Steroids: "Besides making muscles bigger, anabolic steroids may help athletes recover from a hard workout more quickly by reducing the muscle damage that occurs during the session. This enables athletes to work out harder and more frequently without overtraining." (From Mayo Clinic site). Side effects of use are often severe acne, shrunken testicles, impotence, liver tumors and abnormalities, heart and circulatory problems.

NHS: United Kingdom's National Health Service was one of the major social reforms after WWII. Launched in 1948, it had at its heart three core principles: that it meet the needs of everyone, that it be free at the point of delivery, and that it be based on clinical need, not ability to pay. It employed around 1.6 million people with a combined budget of £136.7 billion as of 2016, treating a population of 65 million.

Icarus: Ancient Greek myth of a father escaping Crete with his son, Icarus, using two pairs of wings he made for them out of wax and feathers. The father warns his son first of complacency and then of hubris (pride), asking that he fly neither too low nor too high, so the sea's dampness would not clog his wings or the sun's heat melt them. But, giddy with the excitement of flying, Icarus soared into the sky, not realizing that the hot sun had destroyed his wings until it was too late. He fell into the sea and died, and the area still bears his name. Island of Icaria, southwest of Samos, in the Icarian Sea.


	3. Chapter 3

"...his first major injury came after his third World Cup win, keeping him out of the next season, but he was back in fine form after that, helping his team get to the finals..." Isaac Lyons read from the podium at the front of the ballroom.

John sat in the back row of chairs, quietly watching the crowd as the memorial service went on. He had debated whether to attend, but decided to in the end.

The floor to ceiling windows showed the incredible expanse of the city and the River Thames, 125 meters below. John was slightly bemused that he felt a touch of vertigo, realizing that he hadn't been in a building over six stories tall for a long time. It had even been a strange feeling to step into the high-speed elevator to get to the 34th floor, whisking upwards with powerful motors instead of his own steam.

He was pulled out of his musings when Paola's coach sat down, and his fiancée stepped up, tottering on sky-high Louboutin heels. Her signature mane of gold hair was pulled back into a severe chignon at her nape. Even from the back of the room, he could tell her eyes were puffy from crying and her usual proud posture was bent under the strain of her grief.

"Thank you to everyone for coming out today. Paolo's family, friends, teammates..." She looked at various people sitting on the chairs. "He was so well loved, everywhere we went, and we will miss him so..." Stepping back from the microphone, she dabbed a tissue at her eyes, momentarily overcome and trying to collect herself.

Seeing the obvious grief on Felicity's face really brought it home to John. Made it real. Paolo's fiancée was a successful model, but John had always been impressed with her when she had accompanied Paolo to medical appointments and when he spoke to her after the surgeries. She asked intelligent questions, and there was obviously a great relationship between them, supporting and loving each other. To see this normally poised, beautiful woman breaking down in front of everyone had him scrambling for his handkerchief as well.

A handsome man stepped up to her side, wrapping a supporting arm around her waist, whispering in her ear. She nodded weakly, and he drew her away, taking her to sit beside an older woman who hugged her tight.

"Felicity wanted to let everyone know that there will be refreshments available after the service, so please stay." He returned to the podium to address the crowd, and nodded as he was done.

Like most funerals now, there was an urn with his cremated remains on a side table, so no need to leave to go to a cemetery. People milled about, going to the windows to lookout over the vistas and quietly talk as the caterers set up a buffet of snack foods and beverages.

John stood up, and went to the washroom. As he came back, he ran into his friend, Mike Stamford. "Oh, I didn't expect to see you here. You aren't in sports medicine circles."

"My wife is friends with Felicity, so I knew them socially." Mike replied with a warm smile.

They had been friends since college, but didn't get the chance to see each other very often. Mike came from a wealthy background and had wealthy clientele. John's patients were mostly poor seniors and disabled people, with the occasional elite athlete.

Looking towards Felicity standing with the handsome, olive-skinned man, John quietly asked Mike about him.

Mike chuckled. "You don't watch sports much, do you? Oscar Moretti. He's an old friend of Paolo's, practically a brother. Plays for Milan."

"Is there something more going on there?" John asked, lowering his voice, looking over at the attractive couple. Felicity seemed very upset still, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, and Oscar talking to her softly, care evident in his expression.

Mike shrugged. "There have been rumours, but hotly denied by fans. Oscar, Paolo and Felicity were often seen out together, obviously close with each other. It's only natural he is taking care of her this way."

Nodding, John took a glass of wine from a passing server. This was definitely the fanciest service he had every been to, packed with famous athletes and celebrities. The venue size limited the crowd to those invited only, but John estimated at least a hundred people were in the ballroom, maybe even a hundred and fifty.

A taller man caught his eye, and John was surprised to see Sherlock there, talking with an older woman. He was dressed in a well-tailored black suit, with a simple white dress shirt, but wore it like a model.

Mike chuckled beside him. "Hmmm...I've seen that look before. Another conquest in your sights?"

John rolled his eyes at the insinuation. He had been teased during medical school about his dating habits, and the nickname 'Three Continents Watson' had somehow emerged. "Yes, he's undeniably attractive, but Sherlock Holmes is too much of a nutter for me."

"A bad boy your mama warned you to stay away from? Ever see that crazy / hot graph? The crazy ones are always the most exciting in bed." Mike joked. "We are tempted to be with them even though we know they are no good for us."

John scoffed, taking another drink. "I think I'm old enough to control myself."

Mike smirked at him. "You are single! You should go out and have some wild fun once in a while. Give something for the married types to be jealous over."

John shrugged in response to Mike's comment, and their conversation went on to other topics. But it kept popping up in his thoughts.

Maybe from the outside it looked like his life was routine. Safe. After his years in the military, he had come home and taken a good hard look at everything. He had dated a lot, but never had a long term relationship. With his parents dead, and his sister so unreliable, John had to create his own life. Start his own practice, build up clientele. Date people who were smart and with similar goals in life.

...

Exiting the building an hour later, John crossed the mostly empty parking lot to head towards London Bridge tube station. The weather was mild and warm, and he felt better for being outside again.

A man rushed towards him, and before he could even react, punched him hard across the jaw. John rocked to the side, almost falling down, but regained his balance.

Adrenaline kicked in, breathing faster and his heart pounding as he took in his attacker. Young, strong, angry. Circling to attack John again. He took a few breaths, trying to calm down and focus, knowing he couldn't get out of this on brute strength alone against the bigger man. He needed to be smart.

His attacker took advantage of John's disorientation, his right fist coming in for a hard uppercut.

John saw it coming, and jumped back out of pure reflex. He saw an opening, and his left hand shot out, catching the man hard in his stomach.

The taller man bent over, clutching his abdomen with a loud grunt of pain.

Feeling a surge of satisfaction, John was about to follow it up with another punch when someone grabbed him from behind. He tensed up, ready to spin around to face another attacker.

"John, John..." The man behind him said with a calming tone, the voice seeming familiar and letting John relax a little.

The attacker in front of him straightened up, glaring at John and the man behind him, and must have decided it was too much to take them both on. He whirled around, running quickly down the street.

Part of John wanted to chase him down, surging forward instinctively, but was held back by restraining hands. Twisting out of their grasp, John turned to face the man, surprised to see it was Sherlock.

Blue-green eyes scanned over John, taking in the swelling on his lower face. "Come on, we should get some ice on that before it gets worse."

John's first reaction was to let out an incredulous laugh. _Sherlock as a nurse, tending his wounds?_ The idea was ridiculous. He shook his head as he raised a hand to his face, probing where it was sore.

As his fingers probed over the swollen area, he became more aware of the pain, not only in his jaw, but also in his hand. _Fuck._

Sherlock nudged him forward, and with a sigh, John followed him. This whole day was just getting stranger. Sherlock waved to a trishaw, and they were soon crowded together in the seat, crossing London Bridge.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was leading him up the stairs to a flat. Right into the mad scientist's lair. The thought made John smirk to himself as Sherlock unlocked the door and waved John inside.

It was like stepping into the past, the flat a run down version more suited to one of his ancient patients than a man in his mid-thirties. The walls were painted a light green, with some sections covered with brown patterned wallpaper. The wall above a sagging sofa had bold black and white wallpaper. Every surface seemed to be covered with dusty stacks of books and piles of paper.

"Sit down, John." Sherlock waved towards a plush, upholstered chair with a Union Jack throw pillow as he shucked off his long coat and went into the adjoining kitchen.

Shaking his head, John settled into the chair. He looked down at his left hand, the knuckles reddened and starting to swell. He flexed his fingers experimentally, cringing at the sharp twinges of pain. _Idiot._ He sighed heavily.

Sherlock passed him a tea towel lumpy with several ice cubes, and plopped down on a boxy, dark grey leather armchair nearby.

"Ta." John said softly, shifting the cold bundle to sit against his left hand. The ice inside was already starting to melt, the cold water soaking the fabric.

Curious eyes looked him over, and Sherlock nodded. "Of course. Your hand. I'll get you another for your face." He popped before John could object.

When he returned, John just looked at the new ice pack, wondering how he could manage to hold it against his face while keeping the other against his hand.

Sensing his dilemma, Sherlock gave John's arm a little tug. "Come over here. This will work better."

He motioned for John to sit down on the sofa, and then sat down himself. Placing a throw pillow on his lap, another sweep of his hand showed what he had in mind.

Rolling his eyes, John swung his legs up onto the sofa, leaning back to rest his head on the pillow. Sherlock held the ice pack against his face. John held the other one against his left hand, resting them on his stomach. It was a strangely intimate position for two strangers to be in.

"Who was that guy who attacked you?" Sherlock asked.

John closed his eyes, thinking back on it. Everything had happened so fast. A blur of motion and the survival instinct overriding everything else. "I'm not sure. He was younger than me, likely late twenties."

Sherlock was quiet, and John couldn't see his face from this position to tell what he was thinking. "I didn't recognize him either. I would say he is an athlete, from his physique and quick motions. And he clearly wasn't a fan of you."

There was a slight wry tone to the last comment, and John smiled in response. "I'm not really the type of guy who has archenemies."

"No? Sounds rather dull." Sherlock shifted the ice pack, and a trickle of the melted water went down John's neck.

The cold, wetness sent a slight shiver through John. His breath caught, a tingle travelling down his body. Suddenly, he felt more aware of everything. The contrast of the ice packs chilling his skin when he was warm everywhere else. The odd odour of a musty apartment with chemical fumes, perhaps sulphur or formaldehyde. Things that triggered memories of his days in university labs. His legs felt weak, drained of energy.

Sherlock swore softly, and shifted, getting back off the sofa and positioning John lying down with the ice pack resting against his face. "Your blood sugar is dropping. I'll make you some sweet tea."

John wanted to object, as he hated sugar in his drinks, but then held back. It was strange being the patient, being taken care of. Having his symptoms recognized by someone else before he did.

By the time Sherlock returned with a tray and poured out a couple mugs, John sat up. He put one ice pack on the coffee table, and rested the other on his thigh. Turning his left hand over, he rested it against the cold pack as he took the hot drink with the other. It was real tea, with real sugar, and John sighed at the full flavours that reminded him of his childhood.

From this vantage point, he could see the flat better. Between sips of tea, he tried to subtly check things out. The room nearby was more of a laboratory than kitchen, with elaborate set ups of glassware, clamps and stands. A massive compound microscope had a place of honour at the kitchen table. It was an odd mix of a laboratory, a library and a old lady's cast-off furniture. Clearly, Sherlock lived alone. He couldn't imagine anyone else putting up with these living conditions. At the table near the windows, he spotted a SensiSuit draped over the back of a chair amongst the other clutter, confirming his single status.

"Feeling any better?" Sherlock asked, when John set the empty mug down on the coffee table. His perceptive eyes were watching John closely, likely noticing how he had looked around.

John lifted his hand from the ice pack, turning it over and moving his fingers. The swelling was not too bad, and his range of motion was alright. "I seem to be fine. I should know better than punching with my left hand, but instinct overwhelms thoughts sometimes."

"Can I?" Sherlock held out his hand.

Surprised, John nodded and placed his hand on Sherlock's. His hands were long-fingered and cool to the touch.

Focussing down on his hand, Sherlock lifted it, angling it slightly in various directions, and then lightly palpating around the metacarpals. "You are lucky, Doctor. There doesn't appear to be any breaks."

"Old habits die hard." John pulled his hand back, feeling a little awkward. It was years since he had been in an altercation like that, likely since his army days, fighting drunk over some woman.

Sherlock gave a half-smile at that. "Really? You used to get into fights?" His sharp eyes scanned over John's hemp blend clothing and vegan leather shoes.

The dismissive tone and expression sent a surge of irritation through John. It had been a trying day, the funeral, the attack, and now being here with Sherlock. John's normal patience was at an end. "Doesn't every man at some point in their lives? A simple equation of alcohol lowering inhibitions and intelligence, combined with too much testosterone."

The speculative look he got in return put John into even more of an irked state. "I really should get going. Thank you your help." He stood up, feeling more himself from the tea and rest.

Sherlock walked to the door, but didn't open it. He stared down at John as he approached, his perceptive eyes reviewing him again. And before John could see it coming, he leaned in to press a soft kiss to the sore spot on John's jaw.

John jerked back, startled. The kiss was as unexpected as the punch earlier had been. And left a bigger physical reaction. A combination of warmth and prickles went across his skin, that quick press of warm lips seeming to still tingle.

The taller man had not retreated far, his face still close as he watched for John's response, a slight smirk on his lips.

Glaring up at the berk, John stepped back, shaking his head. "What are you on about?"

Stepping back into John's space, Sherlock ignored the signs, and swooped in for another kiss, this one on John's mouth.

His eyes fell to Sherlock's lips, wanting another, more. The physical, immediate yearning fought with his saner side. He hardly knew this man, and although he was attractive physically, John didn't like him otherwise. This was so, so wrong.

Perhaps sensing John's inner battle, Sherlock tipped the scales with another kiss, this one longer, harder. It broke off with a gasp from both of them. The zing of chemistry between them was undeniable.

Pushing his right hand into Sherlock's hair, John dragged him closer for more. Heat, excitement, a fast surge of pure want ran through John, in a way he hadn't felt for years with anyone. This was ridiculous. He hardly even knew Sherlock. What was he doing?

Questions like that flew from his mind when Sherlock pressed his mouth to John's neck, kissing and giving soft bites to the sensitized skin there. Moaning loudly, John tilted his head away to give better access as his hands clutched his shoulders, pulling him closer. They were soon fully pressed together.

Running his hands down Sherlock's back, John glorified in the enveloping sensation of this man. Feeling his warm body pressed along his own, the warmth, the feel of the fabrics beneath his fingers. The full feel of hot, wet lips against his skin. The sharp nip of teeth. So much more than the satisfying sensations from a SensiSuit. He had forgotten how raw and intense it could be in reality. Dangerous, real, scary, exciting. The smell of a woodsy cologne and the nudge of his erection against John's stomach twisted his arousal higher and higher.

"Fuck." John groaned, tugging Sherlock's dress shirt out of his trousers to touch the bare skin of his back.

Sherlock pulled back, a little breathless, his eyes glittering with sexual promise. "Bedroom?"

This was it. A simple yes or no would suffice. Casual, spur of the moment sex. Fucking a man who was practically a stranger just for fun. Or should he shake his head regretfully and go? Admit to them both that this was a momentary lapse of judgment, that he was ruled by his head, not his libido?

But Sherlock looked too damn tempting to resist. John gave a wicked grin in response, and saw the answering spark of heat in Sherlock's gaze.

Seconds later, they were yanking off their clothes in his cluttered bedroom, chuckling at their uncoordinated movements in their rush to strip. Finally they landed in a messy tangle on the unmade bed, John quickly rolling on top of Sherlock to kiss him hard.

It had been far too long since he'd felt this, an eager naked partner, skin against skin. Messy, sweaty, delicious. Unrestrained and a bit savage. Sherlock seemed determined to leave his mark on John's chest, each nip of his teeth making John hiss in pleasure mixed with the pain. It was almost too much, but too luscious to stop.

—

An hour later, John pulled away of Sherlock's lax hold with a chuckle, and planted a soft kiss on his lips. "Do you mind if I use your shower before I go?"

Sherlock shook his head, watching like a sated lion as John got out of bed and picked up his discarded clothing from the floor.

John's shower was quick, using Sherlock's expensive shower gel and shampoo without worry. He dressed and made sure he had everything, patting his pockets with another chuckle. It would be bad to need to come back for his keys, looking like he intentionally left them behind as an excuse to see Sherlock again. This was obviously just a one-off hook-up for both of them.

When he left the bathroom, Sherlock was in a silk dressing gown and trousers, his chest and feet bare, typing on his tablet.

John lingered for a second by the door. "Thanks again for before." It was awkward sometimes, leaving.

Sherlock rose, ambling towards John. "For what? The sex?" There was a teasing glint to his eyes.

"That, and helping me with the attacker." He waved his sore hand.

Nodding, Sherlock stopped near John. "Still no idea who it was? Or why?"

John shrugged. "None at all."

There was another awkward pause, both of them gazing at each other. _Should I kiss him goodbye?_

The thought made John chuckle to himself, breaking the intense moment. "Goodbye, Sherlock." He pulled open the door with his right hand.

" _Au revoir,_ Doctor." Sherlock said from the doorway as John headed down the stairs.

It took John a minute to orientate himself, and head off to the nearest tube station. Once settled on a seat, swaying with the motion, he was surprised when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

 **Would it be too forward to say we should do that again sometime? -SH**

The surprising message from Sherlock sent a few confusing emotions through John. Pleasure that he had texted and seemed interested in more with John. It was a clear sign he had enjoyed the sex as much as John had. Anticipation at the idea of more sex. A twinge of concern, questioning if it was a good idea to continue things. And irritation at Sherlock.

 **No, it is not too forward to say that. It was too forward to enter your contact details into my locked phone while I was showering though.**

 **It was hardly Fort Knox, John. -SH**

Rolling his eyes at the response, John put the phone back in his pocket, content to just review the strange events of the day as he lifted a hand to probe the sore spot on his jaw and flex his left hand. They were both a bit sensitive still, and he would probably end up with a bruise on his face.

His body had a pleasant sort of all-over ache, from the sex. His skin had areas with whisker burn, some places where Sherlock had dug in with his hands or his teeth. Even before in the shower, John had chuckled to himself as he noticed the marks. Sherlock was unrestrained and passionate, in a way that had John's sated desire starting to perk up again remembering it.

It was crazy to think of spending more time with Sherlock, a man completely wrong for him in every way. He was beautiful and wild, and would probably leave John a mess by the time this attraction blew itself out.

 _Totally worth it._

...

-A/N: Thanks for all the reads and kudos.

-The Shard: The memorial service for Paolo is being held in the ballroom of The Shard, on the 34th floor of this 95 story building.

-Elevators: Energy costs are higher in this version of the future, so people have moved their homes and businesses into shorter buildings that are cheaper to maintain, and the occupants can use the stairs to get around. Elevators would be reversed for disabled use.

-Cremation: Currently, around 70% of people in the UK are cremated, and this will likely go up in the future as land is less available for burial.

-Crazy /Hot: If you rank how hot someone is on scale of 1 to 10, and how crazy they are as well, you can get a crazy hot matrix. The hotter they are, the more likely they are to be crazy.

-Trishaw: This is a cycle rickshaw, since it has one wheel in front, and two in the back. They were created in the 1880s, and by 1980s, there were four million of them in the world. They are also known as bike taxi, velotaxi, pedicab or becak.

-Blood Sugar: After the adrenaline has worn off, people can have a drop in blood sugar, leaving them feeling shaky and not thinking straight. Sweetened tea is a good way to correct it.

-Hemp blend clothing, vegan leather shoes: In this future, most people have gone to using clothing that is produced locally with materials that last well.

-Au revoir: Goodbye in French that translates, literally as 'to the seeing again.'


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock..." John moaned, arching off the bed.

A long forearm was slung over his hips, pinning him down as hot kisses went up his sensitive inner thigh.

Shamelessly, John spread his legs wider, savouring Sherlock's attentions and just craving more. He shuddered in pleasure, reaching down to run a hand over Sherlock's dark curls.

Green eyes opened, seeming to gleam in pleasure at seeing how wrecked John was, reduced to a panting, begging mess. He moved his mouth up higher, licking and kissing in the way John liked best.

"Ahhh!" John jumped, his hand clenching in Sherlock's hair, and pulling him back. "Did you just bite me?"

Smiling a bit wickedly, Sherlock slowly nodded. "You liked it, didn't you?"

Staring down at his unrepentant lover, John could only give a chuckle and settle back on the bed. It had been a shock, the feeling of teeth firmly against such a sensitive area, but... "Um, maybe. Do it again..."

A few minutes later, John was pulling away, fumbling in the bedside table for the lube. He passed it to Sherlock. "Enough. Prep me..."

The handful of times they had met up at Sherlock's, spending hours in bed playing around, touching and pleasuring each other, had made them very comfortable asking for what they wanted. John couldn't remember the last lover who was as open and passionate.

Taking the lube, Sherlock just shook his head. "I was thinking of something different, John."

John rolled over onto his stomach, shamelessly showing his ass. It was great having a partner who was a switch as well. He arched his back as Sherlock ran his hand down his skin.

Leaning closer, Sherlock planted a few kisses and soft bites into the hot skin of John's lower back. He pulled back, lying beside him, giving him a quick kiss. "John, do you trust me?"

The question was a surprising one, especially in the middle of such a hot session. John's brows lowered a little as he gazed at Sherlock.. "Why are you asking that? Why now?"

Sherlock looked down, a mischievous grin making him look even more appealing. "I have a little concoction, something I made and want to try on you."

John's eyebrows shot up at that. "A drug? You want me to take some of your drugs?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock sat up. "No, no...a topical ointment of sorts, sort of like a lube...". He glanced towards the kitchen.

"What does it do?" Part of John wanted to shut this down, refuse outright. He had glanced at things in Sherlock's kitchen laboratory enough times in passing, shuddering to himself as he pondered what the chemist was preparing for his clients, not wanting to know what he was getting up to. It had worked well for them so far, keeping their 'relationship', if that's what you could call it, strictly physical, and not delving into topics that would just get them arguing like they had outside the hospital.

But another part of John, his libido, was curious. Sherlock had proven himself an incredible lover, giving and receiving pleasure generously, sensual and sexual in a way that made John more open to things too. "What does it do?"

With an excited grin, Sherlock scrambled off the bed and ran naked out of the room. He returned in seconds, practically landing on John as he jumped back in the bed. In his hand was a dark blue glass jar. Unscrewing the lid, he scooped up a small amount of colourless gel with his finger.

Waving his finger under John's nose, there was a mild eucalyptus scent, and a light chemical base note. He watched, without objection, when Sherlock smoothed it on his upper arm.

John's breath caught when Sherlock dragged his fingers upwards, sending a rush of intense heat in their wake. He reversed direction, his fingers heading downwards, and John felt a tingle of icy cold race along his skin. The contrasting sensations felt good on his arm...what would they feel like in a more sensitive place? Imagining that sent a surge of arousal through him.

Sherlock had been watching him carefully, and saw it all. Picking up the lube, he shifted to be knealing between John's legs. "Lube first." He patiently began prepping John, both of them getting more eager with every minute that passed. By the time Sherlock wiped his fingers free of lube on a handy towel, John was completely excited to see him scooping a generous dollop of the clear gel.

John held his breath as Sherlock was soon thrusting slowly into him, his size perfect for a good stretch. Fully in, he paused, giving John time to adjust, until John tilted his hip upwards, signalling he was ready for more.

As Sherlock pulled back, there was the sensation of heat, and as he pushed in, intense cold. John involuntarily tightened around Sherlock, making him groan harshly as he grabbed John's hips with both hands.

They were both lost to it then, straining together, matching in an escalating rhythm, harder and faster than ever before. Chasing the intense sensations, wanting to experience it to the fullest.

...

Sherlock was collapsed facedown beside John as they tried to recover their breath, both sweaty messes. Grabbing the towel, he chuckled as he cleaned them up.

John rolled onto his back, floating on the lingering endorphins and the pleasant exhaustion of a good fuck. Picking up Sherlock's hand, he placed a fervent kiss in the centre of his palm. "That was so fantastic. Amazing..."

Sherlock opened an eye to look up at him through his curls, taking in John's satisfied expression.

Moving his mouth lower, John bit gently into the heel of Sherlock's hand playfully. But then he froze, his eyes widening slightly. He set Sherlock's hand down on the sheet, and turned his face away to look at the wall, his thoughts in a whirl.

Sherlock rolled onto his side after a minute, and put a hand on John's shoulder lightly. "Is everything OK?"

With a deep sigh, John turned to face Sherlock as his dark blue eyes searched for answers. "When did you realize who I was? Did you know the whole time?" His gaze flicked down to his mouth. "You were giving me such obvious hints, Fort Knox, the biting...You must think me such a fool."

Shaking his head, Sherlock looked concerned. "No, no...not at all, John. I figured it out during the autopsy." He shrugged.

John sat up, draping his arms over his bent knees, feeling confused. "Did you purposely try to hook up with me after the memorial service?"

Sitting up behind John, Sherlock laid a tentative hand on his back, making a small soothing stroke. "You think I orchestrated that attack just so I could rescue you? Lure you back to my lair, my poor damsel in distress?"

The image made John chuckle, the tension in his shoulders easing, and he twisted to look back at Sherlock. "Sorry. I'm just a bit thrown by everything."

Leaning in, Sherlock gave him a light kiss. "Maybe I should had said something earlier. I wasn't sure how to bring it up. It's not a common conversation to have."

John shifted to the side of the bed, reaching for his clothes from the floor. "It's OK." He slipped everything on, and went into the washroom to tidy up.

When he came out, Sherlock was dressed but looked rumpled, his hair looking like he had dragged his hands through his curls to tame them. He hovered near the door as John put his phone in his pocket and slipped on his shoes. "John..."

Looking up at Sherlock, he had a hard time reading his expression. He was mixed up about his own feelings too. This wasn't like any other relationship he had ever had. Such incredible, intimate, exciting sex. Such an attractive, intelligent man. They had fun together, flirting and enjoying their physical attraction.

"Could we..." Sherlock started, taking a half step closer, but then stopping. Hesitating.

John looked at him curiously. "Could we what?"

Sighing, Sherlock turned to look towards the window. It was just beginning to get dark out. "Would you like to get some dinner? There's a good Chinese place a block away."

 _Dinner...together. Like a date?_

"Um, thanks for the offer, but I really should get going. Another time, maybe?" John found himself saying, and saw how quickly Sherlock looked away, nodding curtly.

He stepped to the door, but paused with his hand on the handle. When had this become so awkward? He looked back at Sherlock, still standing near.

"Sod this," John murmured, grabbing Sherlock with both hands to push against the wall, kissing him hard and deep until he was completely out of breath.

Sherlock looked a bit dazed from it, speechless, and it sent a zing of satisfaction through John to see that, somehow.

With a small smile, he said goodbye and slipped out the door.

...

The ride home on the tube gave John a chance to think everything through. Adding the time he had known Sherlock online to when they had met in person, it had been nearly two months.

It had been so sexual, right from the start. Intense and incredible, connecting on that level in way John hadn't with anyone else for years. They had been having sex together several times a week for the whole time, and it kept getting better.

Sherlock had been different today. Was he worried that John was bothered about learning of their virtual sex? Did he think it would make John end whatever it was that they had? A fling? An affair? Fuck buddies?

Was that why he had made the dinner invitation? He had never done that before, never even offered John a drink except for the tea on his first visit, and that was only because his blood sugar had been crashing. They didn't do that...did they?

The thought of going out together in public just seemed so foreign. Sherlock didn't fit into that area of John's life, the area of dressing up, acting charming and flirty, building casual dates into a possible relationship. Sherlock was not a relationship type of guy. The idea was just laughable.

Had Sherlock been hurt when John turned him down, or relieved? Had he asked out of real interest, or because he thought it was expected somehow? How did fuck buddies act? Was it OK to eat together in a restaurant, or was that too date-y?

John got up at his stop, still feeling confused. Was this whole thing just going on too long, and getting messy? Was it best to end things soon?

As he walked up the station steps into the cool spring night, John knew he couldn't stop it. Not yet...

...

A couple challenging cases at work had John at the hospital for longer hours the next week. It was only when he had an earlier night, listening to some jazz with a big glass of red that he realized Sherlock hadn't contacted him at all. And he hadn't thought to even send him a text.

That, more than anything, said a lot about what their relationship was. Purely physical, something they could both enjoy as it fit their schedules. There was no expectation of daily contact or frequent get-togethers.

With another sip of his wine, he flipped through his email, deleting what he could to see what actually needed a response. There was an email from Dr. Foncha, with the subject line "Paolo Baresi, Final Autopsy".

He opened it up, scanning over the information Molly had verbalized at the autopsy, and went to the test results and conclusions. Traces of chemicals found in most professional athletes, but nothing at alarming levels.

As he prepared to read on, there was a hard knock on his door, almost causing him to spill his wine. He wasn't expecting anyone, there were no messages from anyone on his phone.

Getting up, he made sure his robe was closed, and went to peer out of the peephole.

 _Sherlock. Why was he here? How did he even know where John lived?_

Pushing the questions aside, John fumbled with the lock and opened the door. The man looked pale and wretched, such a difference from his normal vibrant air. "Sherlock, what are you doing here? What-"

His words were cut off by Sherlock stepping into the apartment quickly after a glance around, and shutting the door behind him. "Shhhh..."

His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, and he turned to look through the peephole for a few moments. Finally he turned, slumping against the door, and giving John a beseeching look. "John...I know I shouldn't be here, but I didn't know where else to go."

He paced away from the door, digging his hands through his hair, the complete opposite of his normal composed state. John even saw that his hand was shaking.

Army and medical training kicked in, seeing only a person in distress, and he guided Sherlock over to sit at the kitchen table. "Of course I'll help you if I can. What's wrong? Are you injured?" A quick scan over him didn't show any blood or other signs of injury.

Sherlock just huffed impatiently, and pointed a finger at the autopsy document showing on John's tablet. "Didn't you read it? Can't you see what it's saying?"

John gave Sherlock a puzzled look.

"Oh, look at you. You're so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing." Sherlock spat out, jumping up from his chair to pace back and forth again.

He stopped, letting out a big sigh. "Look, I know this goes beyond what I should ask of you, but I can I stay here? I know it's a risk to you..."

John was still confused still. "Yes, Yes, Of course. Stay. But how is it a risk...?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Harbouring a fugitive." And at John's shocked look, he sighed wearily. "I'm a suspect for murder, John."

...

-A/U: Dun-dun-DUN! — dramatic cliff-hanger music


	5. Chapter 5

" _I'm a suspect for murder, John."_

The word _Murder_ seemed to echo, seeming overly loud, blocking out everything else, even though Sherlock had said it softly.

John swallowed hard; unable to do anything but stare at the man he thought he knew. Was this even remotely possible? John had questioned Sherlock's ethics in the past, but would have never suspected him of being capable of going that far.

"That's ridiculous." John found himself saying, the words just bubbling out of him. And once verbalized, seemed to click as true.

Sherlock's green eyes widened slightly in surprise, and then John could see the tension unwinding from him. He hadn't been sure of the reception he would get from John, but he had still knocked on his door despite that, looking for help. It said a lot about his other friends and family.

With the tension lessening in Sherlock, he seemed to slump slightly, and John grabbed his arm to push him back onto a chair. He was clearly exhausted from everything he had been though today.

John went to fill the kettle. "I'm making some tea and heating up some soup. You need to keep your energy up."

Sherlock tried to dissuade him, but John overrode his objections. The way the man quickly ate the soup showed how long since he had eaten last. Afterwards, John guided him to the washroom.

"Have a shower while I look for some clothes for you to sleep in." John said as he closed the door, slumping against the doorframe when he was alone.

His mind was whirling a thousand directions, with thousands of questions. But he could tell Sherlock was in no condition to answer them tonight. They could wait until morning. Luckily it was the weekend, and he didn't have any big plans.

He found an old t-shirt and some pajama bottoms, and softly knocked on the washroom door before leaving them on the edge of the sink. Sherlock's body behind the opaque shower curtain sending a reminder to John of just what he was getting into.

It was even worse when he went into his bedroom, looking down at the double bed. After all the hours they had spent in Sherlock's bed, they had never slept together. But there really wasn't another option. His small living room area only had a couple single person loungers that weren't good for sleeping on. Plus, it would be strange to turn Sherlock away from his bed after everything they had shared already, wouldn't it?

Hearing the washroom door opening shook John from his contemplation. He went out of the bedroom to see Sherlock dressed in his old clothes, everything slightly short. He looked lost and a little young, like a teenager who had just had a recent growth spurt.

"Come on..." John gestured to him to follow and stepped back into the bedroom. When Sherlock followed him, the room seemed impossibly smaller. Awareness of this man thrummed along John's veins, but not in a purely sexual way like it had before.

Sherlock's eyes seemed large and dark in the dim light of the bedroom, his vulnerability so close to the surface John couldn't help but respond to it. Pulling back the covers, John crawled in, and then held his arms open for Sherlock.

There was a jerk of surprise there before Sherlock scrambled into the bed, diving into his arms, as John pulled the covers back over them. They shifted until comfortable, ending up with John on his back, Sherlock draped over his chest and resting his head on his right shoulder.

It felt strangely right, holding this man, stroking a soothing hand over his back as he settled even more, sinking with a bone-weary exhaustion into John.

"John, you must have questions..." A sleepy baritone whisper seemed loud in the quiet room.

Moving his hand upwards, John ran his fingers through his slightly damp curls. "Tomorrow, Sherlock. They will keep until then. Sleep now."

As the tall berk's breathing slowed, John kept running his hand lightly over his hair or down his back. Soothing motions until he could feel him fall asleep, and then after that just for himself.

Questions kept John from dropping off into sleep. Why had he let Sherlock in? Why had he let him stay? Why did he just instinctively reject the idea that Sherlock was a murderer? Why had he felt so compelled to just take care of the man, feeding and comforting him?

Was it simply pay back for Sherlock taking care of him when he was attacked after the funeral? Brothers in arms, connected against external foes? Did it just stem from their physical relationship? It seemed odd, since they hadn't talked about their personal lives or really cuddled before this.

Perhaps it was simply Sherlock choosing to turn to John in his hour of need, and John being incapable of rejecting him when he was so vulnerable. So alone.

John knew what it was to feel like that, no family he could turn to when he returned to England, injured and weak. Alone and unsure of his future.

It must have been hours before he finally dropped on off to sleep, still holding Sherlock secure in his arms.

...

John woke up to Sherlock nuzzling against his neck, the slight scratch of his whiskers against him making his skin prickle with sensation. Slow kisses moved up his neck, latching onto that spot near his ear Sherlock knew so well.

Wrapping his arms around Sherlock, John rolled him onto his back, pulling back to look at him. His hair was messy, a bit flattened on one side, and curls going a bit frizzy, sticking up in all directions. The soft morning light in the bedroom seemed to make his pale skin glow, scruff along his jawline. His gaze was clear and direct, the dark edge of his irises contrasting with the lighter flecks of blue, green and gold. Simply beautiful.

Sherlock's eyes flicked down to John's mouth, a quick warning of his intentions before he lifted his head to kiss him. It started soft, but grew when John returned it with a small moan.

The familiarity of Sherlock's wonderful kisses almost had John sinking into it, but something held him back. He shifted to the side, already breathing faster, and shook his head as he sat up on the side of the bed. "I'm going to have a shower. We will talk after breakfast."

He got up without looking back, knowing seeing Sherlock so deliciously rumpled in his bed would be too tempting to resist.

When he finished in the bathroom, he dressed and got busy in the kitchen. Soon he had a meal on the table and was sipping some tea. Sherlock came out of the bedroom, his hair tamed and wearing his trousers and wrinkled dress shirt, looking more himself. His eyes were guarded as he sat down.

John poured him some tea, and dug into his breakfast.

Sherlock added honey to his drink before taking a sip. He glanced down at the bowl in front of him skeptically. "What is this?"

"Oatmeal with some dried currants and hazelnuts. Feel free to add honey or milk if you want." John shrugged, waving his spoon at the containers on the table. He took his with a bit of milk.

Taking his spoon, Sherlock lifted a scoop of the hot cereal, examining it closely, and then tipping the utensil so the thick mixture slid back into the bowl.

Chuckling at his antics, John could only grin. "Haven't you ever had oatmeal before?"

"It's not that." Sherlock looked up at John. "This isn't just oatmeal, is it?"

Rolling his eyes, John took another bite. "It's the oatmeal you get everywhere now. Normal LOC mix."

Sherlock's mouth curled into one of disgust. He pushed the bowl away and picked up an apple from the bowl on the table. "I'll stick to this and the tea."

"Suit yourself." John finished off his breakfast, and grabbed his tablet, scrolling through a couple news websites as he ate. "I don't see anything in the news about you."

Pouring himself another mug of tea, Sherlock got up to move to the living room. "Not yet." He sighed as he lowered himself onto one of the upholstered chairs.

John's stomach clenched with nerves, knowing it was time to hear the whole story, and afraid what he would find out about this man. Would it forever change how he saw him? Would he be kicking him out of the apartment, telling him to never darken his doorstep again?

He left the dishes for later, pouring another cup of tea before he sat in the living room. Trying to keep a neutral expression as he faced Sherlock, not letting his feelings show.

Sherlock had his head turned away, looking out of the window. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts, and John didn't rush him.

When he eventually looked back at John, his eyes seemed shuttered and dull. "When you finish reviewing the autopsy report, you will see that Paolo Baresi died of a heart attack, something quite rare for an active man in his early thirties. Although there are no drugs in his system at unusually high levels, his blood does reveal something amiss. His hematocrit level was above 60."

John sighed. "That is very high. Thick blood like that would have been hard on his heart to pump."

"Exactly." Sherlock steepled his fingers together, and rested his chin on top of them.

After a few moments of silence, John made an exasperated noise. "Was there more in the report? Was that all?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Does there need to be more? It was widely known that Paolo was a client of mine, and his blood work shows the results of my work."

"So the report doesn't directly reference you? You haven't been actually contacted by anyone?" John looked at Sherlock in confusion.

Jumping up, Sherlock strode around the room. "His fans want an explanation for his death and it won't take much to point the finger my direction."

Watching Sherlock made John's tension worsen, and he regretted his breakfast now, sitting like a brick in his stomach. "High hematocrit can be caused by many things, Sherlock."

Shaking his head, Sherlock continued his pacing. "The public won't care. I'm a convenient person to blame, and they will pressure the police to charge me. I have no hope that Scotland Yard will research other possible causes."

John wanted to deny it could happen that way, but it was sadly realistic. The DADT league was still controversial, and many people would love to use a case like this to argue against its validity. Rabid sports fans weren't exactly known for calm, rational thought.

"So, you left your flat and came here before they could come for you? What is the plan? Try to get out of the country?" This seemed just too unreal to John. Could Sherlock really evade the police if they wanted him?

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair with a frustrated growl. "I need time, John. Time to figure out what could have happened. If I made a mistake and caused his death, I will face it. Turn myself in. But I won't be their sacrificial lamb to serve up to the public."

"Time? How much time?" John dreaded hearing the answer. The longer Sherlock stayed at John's, the higher the risk of him being found here. Could he really risk so much for a man he didn't know that long or that well?

Sherlock must have seen his expression, as he walked to John and dropped to his knees in front of his chair. "John, I know it is a lot to ask, but please let me stay here. I need time to figure out the deeper facts, figure out the real cause of his heart attack. If I can give the cops the real killer, or the real cause, it will be much stronger than surrendering myself to them now. I won't be able to research anything from jail."

John could see Sherlock's side, but he was still scared. "I understand what you are saying, but how will you be able to investigate this if they are looking for you? Will anyone even talk to you about Paolo?"

Sherlock shrugged, the motion jerky, so different from his normally smooth manner. "I have to find a way to do it. I'll disguise myself, pull in some favours, I don't know..."

Biting his lip, John looked down at Sherlock as he thought it all over. The man had come to him desperate last night, and now he was on his knees begging John for a chance to search for the truth.

If Sherlock was right about how the public would tear apart the autopsy report and point the finger at him, John's involvement would be questioned if he was found here. His reputation and career were on the line.

Sherlock was on his knees, silently begging for a chance to keep his life, his work. John couldn't help but relate to his desperation. He had returned to England all those years ago, lost and confused at how much things had changed while he was away. Poor, hurting, and uncertain of his future. Kind strangers had helped him through that low patch, until he had recovered and adapted enough to figure out what was next.

It had taken years to train to be a surgeon, to establish his business, to get to the top. Now he often turned away rich athletes, wanting to work with the people who needed him more. But if his good name was linked to Sherlock, it wouldn't take much to ruin it.

As much as he didn't agree with Sherlock's work, he knew the man well enough now to respect his intelligence. He was not a man to endanger a client by letting his hematocrit get so dangerously high. There must have been something else that contributed to or caused Paolo's death, and John thought it was honouring Paolo to make sure the truth was known.

John stood up, feet planted shoulder width apart. Sherlock looked up at him, his face blank, like he was afraid that John was going to kick him out. Preparing for the worst.

Looking at him levelly, John knew what he needed to say. "You can stay here a few days, Sherlock, and I will help you investigate Paolo's death as much as I can. He was a client of mine as well, and the people he left behind deserve to know the truth about what happened to him."

Sherlock looked shocked, and then stood up, clasping John's upper arms. "Thank you, John. Thank you. I was thinking we could go down to the stadium to-"

"I wasn't finished, Sherlock." John interrupted, stepping back from Sherlock to break from his hold. "We will need a plan for how to explain you staying with me. Something inconspicuous."

Dropping on to his chair, Sherlock took a sip of his tea. "Can't I simply be a visiting friend? Will we really be questioned that closely?"

John sat down as well, chuckling as he sipped his tea. This whole situation was quite surreal. "I know my neighbours well, and they will think it odd for you to be staying here. We are bound to run into people as we come and go, and it will be best if we have a good cover story."

Rolling his eyes a little, Sherlock let out a small huff. "Fine. I am from Cambridge and I'm staying with you for a few days. We met online, and hit it off, and now we are seeing if things go well in person. That should cover any gaps of knowledge we have about each other."

It seemed uncomfortably close to the truth. "Couldn't you be a distant cousin or something?"

"The best lies are things that have an element of truth to them. More believable that way."

John nodded, letting Sherlock have his way. The story would be easy to remember and it would be reasonable when Sherlock left. John could explain that he had gone home, and things hadn't worked out as well as they had hoped.

"What name will you go by? Sherlock is too distinctive."

Sherlock shrugged. "How about Frank? You are used to calling me that already."

John looked away, the mention of Frank bringing up memories of those hot, sexual sessions they had last month. John panting the name, confessing deep secret fantasies and being so uninhibited with the online stranger. It still seemed strange, matching all those times with the Sherlock he had come to know.

"Fine. We will have to seem normal in the building, and I'll still go to work. If people start looking for you, I don't want anyone to think Frank is you." John was still nervous, but thought this could work. "You mentioned a disguise before..."

He looked Sherlock over, and knew none of his own clothes would work. Getting up, he checked that he had his phone and his keys. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Stay in the flat."

Before Sherlock could object, he zipped out of the door. Twenty minutes later, he returned with his arms full of clothing.

Dropping the pile on his chair, he picked up a pair of beige hemp blend trousers, shaking them out. "Try these on. I think they should be a good fit."

Looking unimpressed, Sherlock took the item and stripped, slipping the clothes on as John passed them over. The materials were all soft, medium tones; the beige trousers, a brown tunic, wool cardigan and a medium blue scarf around his neck.

He baulked at the hat John passed to him though. "No way, John." He tossed it back on the chair.

John picked it up, fingering a soft wool pom pom hanging from an ear flap. "Why not? You will be less recognizable if you cover up your hair."

"I refuse to wear the hat of an anxious sentimental unfit creature of habit with appalling halitosis." He turned with a look of distaste, tugging on the strange clothing.

Dropping the hat, John went to his closet and dug around. He came out with a smile of success. "Fine, if you wear these instead."

Sherlock took the items, and put them on. The dark brown plaid newsboy cap covered his hair quite well, and the large dark rimmed glasses made him look less himself.

John led him over to the bathroom mirror to see the final result. "The glasses are from a fancy dress party I went to a few years ago, so the lenses won't bother your eyes."

It took a few minutes, Sherlock running his hands along the unfamiliar clothing, tugging it into place, pulling the cap down low over his brow. Eventually, he gave a resigned sigh, and turned back to John.

He held out his hand, giving a warm smile. "Hi, I'm Frank Krause." His posture, his expression and even the tone of his voice were friendly and open, such a different manner than his normal distant one. It suited the disguise perfectly.

Smirking slightly, John shook his hand. Even his grasp was warm, the contact quick before Sherlock let go.

This could work, really work. He really looked and acted like a completely different person. Part of John felt relieved, knowing he could be out in public with Sherlock more safely if people didn't recognize him, if they believed his fake persona. A small part of John was disturbed by how convincing Sherlock was in the role. How well did John really know this man? Was he acting a part around John as well, the aloof scientist he had been fucking around with for a few weeks? Who was Sherlock really?

...

-A/N: Thanks for reading this strange story so far... things will really get cooking in the next few chapters, with lots of things explained.


	6. Chapter 6

Ten minutes later they were leaving, and John felt relieved that the hallway was empty. He led Sherlock over to the stairs and started going down. It was empty as well.

His luck didn't hold out, as Francesca entered the stairway on the fourth floor. "Good morning, Dr. John." Her warm eyes looked him over and went to Sherlock, instantly curious.

"Francesca, this is Frank. He's visiting for a few days." John tried to sound normal, genuine.

Sherlock stepped closer, putting an arm around John's waist as he gave her a friendly smile.

Her dark eyes took in the motion, and took on a knowing, teasing glint. "Dr. John! You never mentioned that you had such a handsome boyfriend."

John looked down. _Boyfriend._ Should he let that stand, or correct her? Even in real life, he didn't really think of Sherlock that way, despite all the time they had spent together. "Um, it's, ah, really new."

Her eyes softened, taking in his discomfort, and she stepped closer to place a hand on his arm. "I'm happy for you, John. You deserve love. And some hot sex." She threw the last comment in with a cheeky smirk.

"Oh God." John groaned, embarrassed. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and tugged him along. "Let's go, before she gets more graphic."

Sherlock followed him down the steps. "I wouldn't mind chatting with her some more." There was a chuckle to his tone, and John looked back to glare at him. It made the berk grin even wider.

Outside, John led them to the tube station, still holding Sherlock's hand. He knew so many people in his neighborhood; it would just be easiest to establish them as a couple in everyone's mind. People wouldn't look at Sherlock as closely if his role were known. It still felt a bit odd, holding his large hand, matching their walking pace. They hadn't been out in public together like this, didn't cuddle or act romantic, like John normally would have with people he was seeing.

The carriage was pretty full, and they ended up standing close to each other, holding on to the overhead straps, swaying slightly with the motions of the train.

John let his eyes rest on Sherlock as they travelled, both lost in their own thoughts. It was funny how much different he looked in the borrowed clothing. He was used to seeing Sherlock in fitted suits and shirts, showing off his slim, fit body. Dressed in fine materials in rich, dark colors. It was such a contrast seeing him in loose clothing in soft shades. They made him seem taller, bigger. Covering his hair with the cap, and much of his face with the glasses made him almost unrecognizable, along with the light stubble along his chin.

The train jolted, and John bumped against Sherlock, placing a hand on his arm to brace himself. Sherlock looked down at that hand, and slowly met John's gaze. His green eyes seemed even more attractive with the dark frames, and John found he couldn't look away.

 _Sherlock. Staying at my flat. In my bed. For a few days._ John's libido instantly filled his imagination with all sorts of possibilities, and he looked away. Moved his hand away. Pushed the distracting thoughts down.

But Sherlock's sharp eyes must have caught it all. He had a small, pleased grin on those full lips before he turned to glance out the window. "It's this stop, isn't it?"

John jumped, and moved to the doorway, barely making it out with Sherlock in time. His distraction had almost made them miss their stop. John shook his head as they jogged up the steps. He needed to stay focused on their investigation.

"Do you know where the stadium is?" John asked as they emerged at street level. He knew they had built a new DADT stadium about ten years ago, but had been too busy with establishing his practice to take much notice. He hadn't been to watch sports in person since before he was in the army. Occasionally, he watched a game at home.

Sherlock scoffed at the question. "Do you think I bother with that?"

John shrugged. "All your clients are athletes. I thought maybe you met with them at the field, watched their performance to judge the effectiveness of your treatments."

"Dull. Everything is available on video now, covered from all angles. Instead of watching a whole boring match, I can simply watch clips of my clients in action." Sherlock pulled out his phone, doing a quick search. "The stadium is a couple blocks east."

Walking down the street, John thought back to going to the Rugby World Cup with his father as a teenager, eighty thousand excited fans streaming towards the stadium. It had been barely controlled mayhem, so many fans dressed in gold for Australia, or white and red for England. Red roses and the flag of England painted on faces, or being waved high above everyone's heads. A roar of voices talking, cheering, singing 'Swing Low, Sweet Chariot'. The stadium was like a temple they all gathered in, to worship the saints of the day, chanting and cheering as one.

Today, the streets were quiet and with only normal amounts of people travelling on them, like any other London street. As they got closer, the stadium seemed oddly small. "Is that it? Or is that something for a local school?"

Checking his phone again, Sherlock shrugged as they continued the same direction. The walls of the stadium were no taller than nearby low-rise apartment buildings. The entrance was modern, clean lines, all glass and steel, and they entered into the grand space, the ceilings arching high above. It was mostly empty.

Walking along, they saw a guard sitting at a security station, and Sherlock took John's hand to tug him into that direction with purpose. The silver-haired guard was dressed in a navy uniform, and looked them over assessingly as they approached.

Sherlock gave him a warm smile. "Hi there. Would there be anyone around who could give us a tour? We are considering buying season tickets."

It was still a bit surprising how Sherlock could click into another character so seamlessly, and John tried his best to play along, giving Sherlock what he hoped was a besotted look.

The guard nodded, and picked up a phone, speaking softly into it. A few minutes later, a woman walked towards them, her low heels clicking on the cement. Her dark, curly hair was pinned up, her make-up as dramatic as the red, fitted blazer she wore with sleek black dress pants.

She held out her hand. "Sally Donovan, Guest Services Director." Her smile was professional, her gaze direct and confident.

Sherlock kept up his act as he shook her hand. "I'm Frank, and this is my fiancé, John. My parents are considering giving us season tickets as a wedding gift, and we would like to see the options available." He wrapped an arm around John's waist, tugging him against his side.

John relaxed into his hold, keeping his expression happy as Sally's glance flicked over them. She didn't seem too impressed by their casual clothing.

Sighing softly, she spun on her heel and guided them into a plush office. Taking a seat behind her desk, she clicked on her keyboard until an image was displayed on the wall. "VR Packages start at very reasonable rates, depending on the level of immersion you prefer." The chart showed prices that still seemed incredibly high to John.

Sherlock was unfazed by it though. He chuckled, leaning forward. "I know it may not appear like it, but my parents are very wealthy and generous. We would like a tour of your premium box seat options."

Her eyebrows rose slightly, but Sherlock's warm gaze was unflinching. She looked down at her keyboard, and was soon displaying season ticket prices for box seating with plush armchairs and meal service during games. John had a hard time keeping a straight face at the cost. He had lived and worked among the poor and middle class most of his life, and the idea of spending so much for entertainment was mind-boggling.

Sherlock kept her chatting, acting very enthused, often glancing over to John or touching his arm. He soon had Sally agreeing to tour them around the facilities. The box suites were luxurious, with stocked bars, leather sofas and big screen TVs like a living room, with one end facing down towards the field.

"Sally, this stadium seems mostly box suites and very little seating for regular fans. But when I watch at home, it seems like there are a 100,000 fans at the games." John couldn't help but ask.

She gave him a small smile. "Many people are amazed by that, when they come down here. Most fans choose to watch from home these days, and stadiums have had to adapt to that over the years to stay financially viable. We try to offer the best experience at the various price points of our fan base. It is easy enough to digitally add avatars of the fans to the video feed."

John nodded. "I usually watch on VR with friends for the big games." Often, a co-worker at the hospital would host, paying for the pay-per-view. John would log onto the sports VR site, feeling like he was in the stadium sitting beside his friends. It was surprisingly fun and easy, just putting on the headset from the comfort of his own home. The VR charges were set for how close you were viewing the action, ranging from right from the sidelines to the back row.

Sherlock wrapped his arm over John's shoulders, pulling him against his side with natural affection. "Sally, this has been so interesting. Can you tour us behind the scenes too? Like the locker rooms?"

Suddenly, John understood what Sherlock had been doing all along. Getting Sally comfortable, by seeming interested in a box suite. It was all to get access to the athletes' area.

She paused, and nodded. "We don't normally give access there, but I show you around. Keep this between us, OK?"

The athletes' clubhouse was massive. Beyond the change room area with the players' uniforms and gear, there was a lounge, kitchen, meeting rooms, coach offices and a gym. John could feel Sherlock's hand tighten on his when they entered the sports therapy area, a secret signal to watch for anything amiss. There were massage tables, a hot tub, an ice bath, and cupboards that reminded John of medical offices he had worked in over the years. Glass jars of alcohol wipes and cotton balls sat on the counter.

As they stepped back into the hallway, heading out to the field, Sherlock stopped. "Um, Sally, could I use the washroom?" He waved to one nearby, in the semi-public area.

She nodded. "Sure, we will just be outside those doors when you want to join us."

Standing on the side of the playing field was a humbling experience, and John was surprised to feel slightly breathless.

Sally chuckled at his silence. "It's like that for everyone when they first stand here. You see the field on screen so often; it's easy to forget how huge it is. Imagine what it's like to be a player running the length of the field."

John recovered enough to smile back. "I still can't believe the stands are so small. What's the capacity?"

"Only 1000. We don't need to pack in crowds here to be financially successful. The seats are large and padded, with plenty of legroom. The box suites you've already seen." Sally waved to the various areas.

It just seemed so odd to John. "But don't the people who come miss the loud crowds, the energy of that? Cheering and celebrating each goal? Don't the players?"

Sally shrugged. "Think of tennis or golf. The players want to be able to focus on the game, and play their best. They want to be able to hear their teammates and coaches during play. Silent, attentive spectators actually increases the tension. Watching here live is a completely different, intimate experience than watching in VR. VR is more of a fan experience."

John thought about it, looking around the stadium and trying to imagine what it would be like to watch world-class athletes play in silence. With VR, he had options, like choosing to sit with a mix of fans, or only with supporters of his team.

He was so involved by it, he jumped slightly when Sherlock's arms encircled him from behind. Chuckling to cover that, he leaned back into him, and rubbed his hands along Sherlock's forearms.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to his nape, and John couldn't help but shiver in response. Being around the man so much was making him feel more and more aware of him, and these little touches while they did their engaged couple act weren't helping.

"Sorry that took so long." Sherlock said to Sally, over John's shoulder.

John turned his head to plant a kiss on his cheek. "See, you should have had that oatmeal this morning. It would help keep you regular." There. If Sherlock was going to play up their relationship, John would bug him right back.

"Honey, Sally doesn't want to hear about all that." Sherlock stepped away from John, and grabbed his hand. "Well, we should get going. Thanks so much for the tour."

Sally bid them a warm goodbye, a bit amused by their bickering.

Outside the stadium, John dropped Sherlock's hand. "Were you able to get back into the clubhouse?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I had a look through the medical area, and didn't find any drugs besides normal pain relievers. If the team is administering anything to their players, it's not there."

"Where should we go now?" John looked around, trying to remember the direction to the tube station.

Taking out his phone, Sherlock pulled up a map app. "I was also able to go into the coach's office and access his computer. Got information on Paolo's next of kin."

As he was busy with his phone, John caught a glimpse of someone about a block away. When he turned his face for a better look, the man stopped, and slipped down an alleyway.

"Sherlock! I think that was the guy who attacked me!" John said, as he took off in that direction. When he got to the alleyway, he looked down it, but didn't see anyone. He was about to run further when Sherlock grabbed his arm, holding him back.

John yanked hard on his grasp with a growl of frustration, and staggered as he got free. He was about to take off when Sherlock grabbed him again, pulling him back.

"He's gone, John. He's blocks away by now." Sherlock said, his voice resigned.

John just glared at Sherlock, and spun towards the tube station. It was simply too much of a coincidence that the attacker was outside Paolo's memorial service and now outside his stadium. It meant the attacker had some connection to Paolo. Aside from clearing Sherlock's name, John wanted to solve his own mystery about why he had been attacked and by who.

After a couple blocks, he had cooled off enough to glance behind him. Sherlock was trailing him, walking slowly as he texted, and concentrating deeply.

Tantalizing smells were coming from a nearby restaurant, and John waited for Sherlock to catch up to him. "If we went in here, would you actually eat something?"

Sherlock pocketed his phone and glanced up to the sign, and nodded.

Sighing in relief, John entered and they were soon seated at a small table in the crowded restaurant. He perused the menu, and flicked a glance at Sherlock. "Shall we order a few dishes to share? Do you like spicy food?"

"Yes. Order whatever you like, I'm not picky." Sherlock shrugged, setting down his menu to type on his phone again.

John barely kept from rolling his eyes. To think he had been concerned a week ago that eating out together would seem too date-y. Sherlock was clearly preoccupied with his investigation, not that John could blame him. It still felt a bit jarring after how affectionate he had been behaving at the stadium.

The server arrived, and John picked out a few dishes, making sure they were vegetarian.

"And could we get a couple Kingfishers?" Sherlock looked up from his phone to ask before the server left.

The young man shook his head. "Sorry, sir. We no longer carry imported beer. We do have an India Pale Ale that is brewed in Derbyshire."

Sherlock nodded. "Fine, that will do."

They were soon digging into the meal, and John felt relieved that Sherlock seemed to be eating a good sized portion. The flavors were good; a nicely spiced red lentil dal and some aloo gobi, with fresh naan to scoop up the tasty sauces.

"You seem a little thrown off by the stadium." Sherlock commented, sipping his beer. His eyes, even behind the clean lenses, were as sharp and observant as ever.

John sighed. "Sports have changed so much since we were kids. It's sad that it's become so elitist."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. "Were you here in the '20s, when it was all changing so much?"

Shaking his head, John dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin. "No, I was in the army in Afghanistan for six years. Things were so much different when I came back in 2030."

"That must have been quite a shock. The rationing period was just starting to end then." Chuckling a little, Sherlock put down his utensils. "Well, even before prices started going up so much, more people were adopting virtual reality. Choosing to stay at home and be comfortable, having an immersive experience. The DADT league was just getting popular as well, so it makes sense they built small stadiums like this one."

John had used VR enough personally to see why everyone used it so much. It was so easy to put on the headset and be 'virtually' at an office meeting. Meet with people in a virtual room. Even getting together with friends that way, to watch some sports, a movie or to chat. Most people had a default avatar they used for day to day use, with their face being read by the headset sensors to convey their expressions. Their true face and voice were conveyed on their avatar.

John sighed again. "People in their twenties have probably never experienced being in a huge stadium with 90,000 fans, cheering and singing, drinking together. They don't know what an incredible experience they are missing."

Sherlock shrugged. "You are only remembering the good side of it. How about it taking hours to get to and from the stadium, the crowded transit, and lining up for everything? The long waits while security checks everyone for weapons and alcohol. The line-ups for the loo, and for buying anything?"

"Yeah, you had to be patient." John thought back to those times.

"And then after all that, your team might play crappy or the refs would make bad calls. Or there were some drunk idiots nearby making it hard for you to enjoy the game."

John nodded. That had certainly happened a lot. In VR, you could choose the amount of audience you watched the game with. It could be you alone, or just with a handful of friends, or the whole crowd. If someone was particularly annoying, you could stop their avatar from showing. Volume levels could be as loud or quiet as you wanted. Annoyances were basically eliminated.

He looked back at Sherlock, who was texting again on his phone. The cap and glasses hid his features pretty well. This was the first time they had ever eaten together in a restaurant, and it sure didn't feel like a date. They had only discussed things involving the case all day.

What would have happened if the autopsy had shown Paolo had died of natural causes? Would things with Sherlock continued on much longer? Purely physical relationships tended to fade over a few weeks.

They would never know now. The dynamic between them had changed irreversibly the moment Sherlock knocked on his door, looking for help. But then again, Sherlock had tried to initiate sex that morning, waking up together for the first time. And John had almost forgotten the outside world, like he so often did when in bed with Sherlock. It had been hard to stop and pull back from Sherlock's kisses, but he couldn't truly let himself go until they had talked things out.

Even in his borrowed clothing, Sherlock was attractive, and John was surprised at how the dark rimmed glasses seemed to bring out his eyes even more. Despite everything that was going on, his libido was still affected by just being around Sherlock so much. A slow simmer. John licked his lips, and saw how Sherlock caught the small motion.

Sherlock, John was coming to find, bent and broke rules often, pushing past limits, and only asked for forgiveness if he got called on it. How many times had he pushed at John's boundaries in bed, getting him to try things he hadn't before. It was frustrating, yet exciting. He was never predictable.

John was shaken out of his thoughts by noticing how Sherlock was looking at him, like he was trying to read him. His gaze warmed, and he glanced down at John's lips, before meeting his gaze again.

Sherlock gave a small grin, before standing up. He dropped some cash on the table and put his phone away. "Ready to go?"

John was at his side as they left the restaurant, and about a half block later, Sherlock pulled him into an alley. "I never properly thanked you for letting me stay at your flat and helping me investigate this."

"It's fine, really-" John started, but Sherlock pushed him against the brick wall and kissed him hard. There was only a moment's pause before John got over the shock, and wrapped his arms around the berk, pulling him in closer.

It was exciting and somehow new, kissing Sherlock in the shadows, semi-publicly. Running his hands down his back, feeling his familiar body in these strange clothes, just wanting to strip them off. Indulge in the pure lust that he had for this man, the knowledge of the intense pleasure they could give each other.

But as tempted as he was to haul Sherlock home to bed, they didn't have much time to investigate the situation. Regretfully, John pulled back, loosening his hold on Sherlock. "You can finish thanking me later, OK?"

"Later." Sherlock agreed, taking in John's flushed face and mussed clothes. He grinned in satisfaction as he stepped back, straightening his own clothes.

John made no objections when he took his hand, leading him back out onto the street and leading him towards the tube station.

...

-John is 14 years old when he goes to the Rugby World Cup match at Twickenham Stadium, with 81,000 other spectators, on Oct 3/15. Australia beat England 33-13.

-VR spectator crowds: I'm picturing people in the future using Virtual Reality to experience events, like sports. This is very inspired by the Black Mirror 2011 episode, 'Fifteen Million Merits', which starred Daniel Kaluuya (also from the great movie 'Get Out') and Jessica Brown-Findlay (Lady Sybil from Downton Abbey). It is set in the near future, and he uses 15 million credits to get her onto a TV talent show, similar to American Idol. People watch the show from their flats, and their avatar appears in the audience.

-Jaipur India Pale Ale: "Honeyed, zesty and spicy, but back-dropped by an incredible smoothness, this IPA represents one of the finest offerings from the Thornbridge brewery in Bakewell, Derbyshire, whose beers reflect the changing fortunes of the Great British Pint


	7. Chapter 7

John felt a little uncomfortable as he rang the doorbell, Sherlock standing behind him quietly. A few moments later, an attractive woman in her late fifties opened the door.

"Mrs. Baresi? I don't know if you remember me. Dr. John Watson? We met once, after Paolo's Achilles' tendon surgery?" John made his expression into his friendly doctor one.

Her dark eyes warmed with recognition. "Oh yes, Dr. Watson! Please come in." She opened her door wider, and gestured for him to enter.

The terraced house had been extensively remodeled, making the interior very modern and beautifully decorated. John took a seat on a plush sofa, with Sherlock sitting beside him.

"Mrs. Baresi, this is my friend Frank." He kept the introduction simple, and felt relieved when the woman nodded at Sherlock, with no apparent signs of seeing through his disguise, as she sat down near them.

"Please, call me Greta. Shall I make us some tea?" Her English had a light Italian accent.

John shook his head. "No, thank you. I just wanted to stop by to say how sorry I am for your loss."

Her gaze dropped, her posture wilting slightly, before she looked back at John. "That is kind of you. I am still having a hard time believing he is gone."

"I didn't know him that well, but I could tell he was well loved by you, the rest of his family and his fans. He had a great career." John said softly, not wanting to press too far. This woman was obviously still mourning her son.

She shook her head, pulling out a handkerchief from her pocket to dab at her eyes. "His career." She sighed, looking back at John. "He should have retired a couple years ago, but he kept pushing for more and more. That's what killed him."

"Why didn't he retire? I could see he wasn't doing as well when I operated on his knee last year. I encouraged him to consider it then." John shifted forward, really wanting to hear her side of this. It had been troubling John for a long time.

Greta shifted, leaning back in her chair, and crossing her legs. She looked around the room, and waved a dismissive hand at it. "All this. We were poor, and Paolo loved his success. Loved the money and fame. The lifestyle. He insisted on moving me into this fancy place, and bought a designer flat with his model fiancée. Always the finest for him."

"But Felicity wasn't pushing him, was she? Was she discouraging him from retiring?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "I think she really loved him, but would she stick around if he couldn't keep up their lifestyle? I'm not so sure. And neither was he."

John was grateful she was being so open with him. Perhaps it was because he had known Paolo at his peak, before he was with Felicity. Plus, John had a friendly manner as a doctor that had patients and their families trusting him.

"So, do you think he put his health at risk, trying to stay a professional athlete so long? Was he doing dangerous things?" John asked, and noticed Sherlock stiffen up beside him. He had been remarkably quiet this whole time, letting John take the lead.

She lifted the handkerchief to her face again, her body trembling slightly.

John instantly felt horrible. "Oh, Mrs. Baresi...Greta...I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have asked you all these questions. It isn't my place. We should go." He shifted to stand up.

"No, stay." Greta said, her voice breaking slightly, as she waved John to stay seated. She took a moment to collect herself, taking some calming breaths as she mopped up her tears. "It is good for me to be able to talk about this with you. You understand the medicine, you knew him."

John nodded, trying to keep her talking.

Greta glanced away, sighing. When she met his glance again, her eyes were sad yet resigned. "Paolo was my dear boy, but I think he was foolish those last couple years. He went to that chemist, I forget his name...that I understood. He has a good reputation in the league. But the others..." She just shook her head.

"So, he was getting treatments, procedures, from other people? Not just that chemist?" John leaned forward, wanting to grab her hands, anything, to encourage her to say more.

She nodded. "He wasn't telling me everything, at the end. He knew I didn't approve. I thought of going to his fiancée, talking to her, get her to convince him...but I left it too late." She dabbed a lone tear that ran down her cheek.

John did take her hands now, squeezing them gently. "You raised him well, gave him so many great opportunities in his life. He worked hard to get where he did, thanks to the values you imbued him with. I work with a lot of athletes, and Paolo was a very special man."

He was sincere in his comments. Paolo had done incredibly well in his career, but had also given back a lot. He worked with young athletes, and was a spokesman for many charities. He had been a warm, generous man.

She nodded, clearly appreciating his words. Sherlock touched John's back lightly, and John looked at him.

With a final squeeze, he let go of her hands. "Thank you for speaking with us today. I'm looking for my own answers to what happened to Paolo, and you have helped me a lot."

She walked them to the door, giving John a quick hug in goodbye. She simply nodded at Sherlock as he guided John out the door, clearly thinking they were a couple, and Frank was there for emotional support. It raised fewer questions, so John left the impression alone.

...

Walking back to the flat from the station, John wasn't even that surprised that Sherlock was holding his hand. They had been doing it most of the day, and it was probably best to stay in character as much as possible. It was hard to know when they could be seen by someone they knew in public areas.

It felt oddly right, somehow. Sherlock's grip was firm, but not too tight to be uncomfortable. They navigated easier through the crowds, leading each other past slower walkers.

It was handy now, tugging on Sherlock's hand to get him to stop walking. He gave John a questioning look.

John glanced towards the secondhand clothing store nearby. "I think we could get you some other clothes for your stay. Then I can return the borrowed ones."

Sherlock tugged at the ill-fitting garments with a look of distaste. "I thought anything would be better than this, but used clothing? Used by strangers?"

Rolling his eyes, John just tugged him into the shop. "Don't be such a snob. The clothing is all washed and in good condition."

It was a good-sized store, bustling with customers of all ages. Energetic instrumental music was playing over the store speakers, a chaotic mix of drumming, accordion, violin and band instruments. John steered Sherlock to the men's clothing area, seeming unfazed as he started pulling out clothing. He heaped the pieces in Sherlock's arms, sorting quickly through several racks.

"John..." Sherlock groaned, as he put another shirt on the pile. "I'm only staying a few days. I don't need a whole new wardrobe."

Chuckling, John pulled him over to the change rooms. "Some of it might not fit you right or look good. Plus some of it is for me." He unloaded the clothing, hanging things on two separate hooks as he went.

Taking the items off one hook, John gave him a stern look. "Try those on and show them to me. I'll be right next door." He closed the curtain.

Sighing, Sherlock put on the first outfit. Everything seemed just as awful as what he was wearing before, all scratchy natural fibers in faded medium tones. Loose fitting tunics, jumpers, and trousers with drawstring waists. Hideous.

Sherlock dutifully let John see each selection on him, standing patiently while John pulled and prodded him, tutting over the clothing. Sherlock's complaints were ignored.

Finally, John seemed satisfied, and went to the counter with a pile of folded items. When Sherlock pulled out a credit card, John shook his head and pulled out his own. As the cashier finished the transaction, John leaned in closer. "Better not use your credit cards. They are traceable."

The whisper had Sherlock nodding in agreement. But having John close like that just made him want more. Tentatively, he wrapped an arm along John's lower back, resting a hand against his hip. It felt good when instead of pulling away, John leaned against his side, passing a clothing bag to Sherlock to carry while he took his own.

He had never walked down a street like this with someone, hips nudging against each other, matching John's stride. In sync with each other. It was a day of firsts...waking up with someone, holding hands, and now this. All in the safety of this odd situation. He could try things he normally wouldn't.

Back at John's flat was another strange situation. It was so much different from his own, John's lifestyle so much different. He watched, fascinated, as John unpacked their purchases and then peaked in the refrigerator.

"Are you OK with eggs and cheese? I was thinking of making an omelet and a salad for supper." John said, looking over at his shoulder at Sherlock.

Sherlock's hands stopped undoing his trousers. "Um, sure, that's fine." He went back to changing into some new clothes, leaving the borrowed clothes on a chair. John wanted to wash them before giving them back.

Awkwardly, Sherlock stepped into the kitchen. "Can I help?"

John set out a chopping board and a knife. "How about you cut these up for the salad?" He rinsed some vegetables in the sink, and placed them on the counter.

Sherlock picked up the knife, and carefully started cutting things up, adding them to a large bowl John put out. He felt very aware of him standing nearby, whisking some eggs.

Chuckling, John put his hand on Sherlock's forearm. "Hold on a second..."

Setting down the knife, Sherlock gave a frustrated noise as he turned towards him. "Am I chopping them wrong? I'm not much of a cook."

John had a small smile as he shook his head. "No, no...you're doing fine. It's just that you are still wearing these. Funny how you seem to have gotten used to them." He reached up with both hands, pulling Sherlock's glasses off slowly.

Sherlock had taken off the cap as soon as they were back in the flat, and had changed clothes, but completely forgotten about the glasses. He looked down at John as he set them on the counter.

John's eyes were such a deep blue in the soft light of the kitchen, as he returned Sherlock's gaze. "It's nice seeing your eyes easier again, and your hair...". He pushed a hand into his curls, and Sherlock gave a small moan.

With a soft swear, he leaned in, kissing John firmly. All the little touches and looks all day had built up, a simmering hunger for this man. "John, please...," he moaned, kissing down his neck.

John tipped his head back, his hand still in Sherlock's hair. "Please what?"

"Please come to bed. Right now. I can't wait any longer." He bit softly into his skin, feeling John shudder against him. Still, he waited, not sure. John had turned away from him this morning. Would he again, despite the obvious attraction between them? Were things too much of a mess in Sherlock's life?

John's hand clenched in Sherlock's hair, pulling his head back to deliver a deep, long kiss. "Bed. Naked. Now." He growled, his eyes dark with need.

Sherlock's arousal kicked into high gear at the words, and seeing that familiar look of pure want on John's face. In this, they had always connected so incredibly, and he was ecstatic John still felt it.

They abandoned their half-finished food preparations, practically running to the bedroom to strip and drop onto the sheets naked. Wonderful. Sherlock pulled John closer, determined to make him see stars before he was done with him.

...

"Are you really going to sit right there?" John chuckled, as Sherlock pulled his chair right next to his and plunked down on it.

It was a couple hours later, and only rumbling stomachs had been enough to drag their exhausted bodies out of the warm cocoon of blankets. They only pulled on briefs, stumbling to the kitchen to finish making the quick meal.

Sherlock shrugged, pouring them both some wine. "You are left-handed, I'm right-handed. I think this works fine."

John laughed again, loving how unapologetically clingy Sherlock was acting. They were sitting on the same side of the tiny cafe table, Sherlock pressed against his right side. If this kept up, by the next meal, he could put the food on one plate for them to share. It was ridiculous, but he liked it.

Maybe it was just the endorphins from the great sex, even more spectacular for having things build up over the last 24 hours. They had both needed a release of all that sexual tension. Being around each other so much was bound to intensify things.

Perhaps Sherlock was acting like this due to the extreme situation; being together so much, and having John's help in his time of need. If everything went well, and they figured out what really happened, would any of these feelings last? Would Sherlock still feel like this when he was back in his own flat, back in control of his life?

John wondered about his own feelings too. Would they last when they went back to their regular lives? Was the danger and excitement feeding into it?

As he enjoyed his Swiss cheese and mushroom omelet, John savoured Sherlock's company. While he was here, John might as well enjoy it. He would try to guard his heart from getting too deeply involved, hold back until they were out of this situation.

After dinner, they washed the dishes, and went back to bed. It had been a long day, and it wasn't surprising how quickly they fell asleep in each other's arms.

...

The writing went a little better this week. I may post another chapter by the end of the weekend. Thanks for reading.


	8. Chapter 8

John woke up, feeling warm and relaxed. He was spooning Sherlock, holding him loosely in his arms. It was surprisingly comfortable, and he felt a surge of emotions over having him so close.

Sherlock seemed to wake up then, and he rolled over to face John. His green eyes were sleepy, making him look younger. His messy hair and the pillow crease on his cheek were just too much to resist, and John leaned in to kiss him lightly.

He kept the kisses slow and sweet, just teasing Sherlock with lightly brushing their lips, moving his head back when Sherlock tried to intensify them. Eventually, he sunk against the pillow, giving into John's slower pace, letting him take the lead.

Kissing slowly down Sherlock's body, John took his time to explore like he never had before. Previous encounters had always been hot, urgent and passionate. It was fun to touch, tease and explore, glorifying in the way Sherlock responded to it all. He was breathing faster, arching off the bed, moaning. His arousal was feeding directly into John's.

By the time John finally submitted to Sherlock's pleas, thrusting into him slowly, they were both on the edge. Still, John kept a slow pace, meeting Sherlock's gaze as they moved together, watching him closely for every flit of pleasure across his face. Every motion was to draw the most pleasure from his partner, making that the focus, his own desire secondary. Watching Sherlock reach his peak, panting and moaning his name, was what finally pushed John over the edge, tucking his face against Sherlock's neck as he shuddered in his arms.

It was only a few minutes later, when John had his breath back, that he realized how quiet and still Sherlock was, lying beside him. Propping himself up on one elbow, John looked down at him. "Are you OK?"

Sherlock had been looking towards the window, and he glanced quickly at John before nodding. He sat up on the edge of the bed, grabbing the thick bathrobe John had bought him yesterday, and slipping it on. "Is it alright if I shower first?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." John reached out to stroke a hand down Sherlock's arm, but the man was already moving out of reach.

Rolling onto his back, John stared at the ceiling as he listened to the bathroom door close and the shower start up. Sherlock was so hard to read at times, and he wasn't that open with his feelings. Had the way John touched him been too much? Too...intimate? He seemed to have responded well to it during... but afterwards...?

Perhaps this whole situation was screwing both of them up. Forced intimacy of sharing their space, their time. Normally they would only be together a few hours for sex, and then go their separate ways for a few days. Now they were eating and sleeping together, practically acting like a married couple. John had even bought him clothes.

John sighed in relief of the thought of going back to work tomorrow. It would be good to get some time on his own, and to do normal things. Time away from Sherlock to get back some perspective.

They would be running around today again, investigating any lead they came across. It had gone surprisingly well yesterday, getting good information at the stadium and from Paolo's mother. Interesting that she seemed to respect Sherlock's work, assuming that he was 'the chemist' she was referring to. How were they going to find out who else Paolo was getting treatments from?

He was brought out of his thoughts when he heard the bathroom door opening. Getting out of bed, he put on his own robe, and stretched as he left the bedroom.

Sherlock was sitting on a living room lounger, still in his bathrobe, his wet hair in messy curls. He was working on his tablet, and barely glanced up as John passed him.

Sighing, John stepped into the shower. His emotions were a jumbled mess, as he rubbed a soapy facecloth over the many places Sherlock had left his mark. Light bruises on his arm from grabbing him on the street yesterday, and on his hips from last night. Bite marks low on his neck and his inner thigh. Whisker burn from kissing Sherlock, his stubble scratching against John's face. All these marks would fade in time.

John was more worried about his growing feelings for the man. Those wouldn't fade as easily when he left.

...

After dressing, John went into the kitchen. Sherlock was already at the table, munching on a piece of toast smeared with peanut butter and jam as he read his tablet.

Pouring himself a cup of tea after putting bread in the toaster, John was glad Sherlock was making himself at home. He sipped the tea, looking outside. Heavy dark clouds blanketed the sky, and there was a steady drizzle that probably wouldn't let up anytime soon. Normally, he would curl up under a blanket on Sundays like this, listening to some good music while diving into some good fiction. But instead he would be braving the elements with a moody git.

After he prepared his toast, he sat down across from Sherlock, noticing the chairs were back in their regular positions. Last night's clingy period was a short term aberration, it seemed.

He pulled out his own tablet, checking his emails as he ate. Giving Sherlock the space he was clearly telegraphing that he needed. There was a new one from Mike, and he opened it immediately.

After reading it, he glanced up, ready to share the new information with Sherlock. But the words stuck in his throat, seeing the way the man was looking at him.

"Why do you live like this?" Sherlock asked, seeming exasperated.

John was confused. "Like how?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and waved around the flat. "You are one of the best orthopedic surgeons in Britain, and you make good money, but you live in this dump. Your flat is so tiny you can't even fit a sofa in the living room. Your shower is only lukewarm with lousy water pressure. You buy secondhand clothes, and eat cheap food."

The words stung, and John immediately felt defensive, being attacked like this by someone he had been so open with. He hadn't invited Sherlock over before, knowing he probably would be judgmental. "Sorry things aren't up to your standards. You are free to get the fuck out anytime you want." It came out harshly, but John wasn't going to take attitude like that in his own home.

Sherlock jumped up, striding across the flat, looking disgruntled. "You know I can't do that."

John knew, deep down, that he was just a handy target for Sherlock's frustration over the whole situation, and for feeling out of control. From the little he knew about Sherlock, it seemed like he lived his life according to his own set of rules. John understood it, but he refused to be a punching bag for Sherlock.

"I said I'll help you, and I'll let you stay here, Sherlock. But you have no right to attack my lifestyle just because it's different than yours. You owe me an apology." It thankfully came out a lot calmer than the last thing he said. John finished off his toast, washing it down with a sip of tea.

Sherlock let out a big sigh, his shoulders slumping. "Fine. I'm sorry, John. Can we leave soon?" He turned, pulling on a thick wool jumper from his pile of clothes, before donning the cap and glasses.

Knowing it was the best he would probably get out of him, John nodded. He got a big jumper on as well, and his navy mac.

Sherlock seemed to have a destination in mind, holding the umbrella over both of them as they walked down the quiet streets. Weather like this kept most people indoors.

About three blocks away, they turned a corner and Sherlock swore under his breath. He turned to John. "Don't judge me too harshly for this, OK? I'll explain everything later."

John gave him a confused look, and it was even worse when Sherlock guided them over to a car parked on the side of the road, it's electric motor purring almost silently. Sherlock closed the umbrella and climbed into the back of the car, leaving the door open for John.

It took a heartbeat or two of rain hitting his face before John ducked into the vehicle, shutting the door behind him. Sherlock was sitting beside a man on the backseat, so John sat on the folded down seat that faced them. It had been years since he had last been in a car, and he couldn't resist glancing quickly around. This one reminded him a little of the old black taxicabs from his childhood.

When he looked at the other man, he was surprised by his assessing glance. He felt like a bug about to be pinned to a board for scientific study. "So, this is your doctor," the man drawled with a bit of a sneer, looking back at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed loudly. "Hardly _my_ doctor, Mycroft. Do you have the information or not?"

The older man arched an eyebrow. "Are you denying that you have been involved with him for several weeks, and seemed to have moved in with him?"

"Things aren't always as they appear." Sherlock said impatiently.

Mycroft chuckled, pulling a tablet from a briefcase near his feet. He swiped a few times. "Oh really? What other explanation do you have for this?"

He passed the tablet to Sherlock, who looked it over. "It's really none of your business." He was about to pass the tablet back when John grabbed it. He had had enough of being left out of this conversation.

The tablet showed four grainy black and white photographs. He enlarged the images, making it very clear what he was seeing. Sherlock kissing him in that alley near the restaurant yesterday. The second picture showing John's arms around him. The third picture of them talking, still holding each other. The last one of Sherlock stepping back onto the sidewalk, a pleased grin on his face, as John straightened his clothes behind him.

"How did you get these pictures? Who are you? What do you want?" John stared at the man, a thousand questions zipping through his mind.

Taking the tablet from his loose grasp, Sherlock handed it back to Mycroft. "He's my brother, John. And those aren't the pictures I asked you for." He glared at the other man.

 _Mycroft...Holmes?_ John looked at the man closer in the shadowy car interior, and finally placed his face. He was always in the background, never featured, in the Prime Minister's press conferences. Her right-hand man, basically her chief of staff. An incredibly powerful man. No wonder he had a car and a driver.

John tried to match that man from the news with this man glaring like a spoiled brat at his younger brother.

"You'll get them when you give me something." Mycroft said simply, knowing he had the upper hand.

Sherlock huffed. "Fine. John is a fuck buddy upgraded to safe harbor until we resolve the Baresi situation. He is kindly letting me stay at his flat a few days."

Mycroft's expression was disbelieving. "Should I show you more pictures? Holding hands, eating out, shopping?"

"Like I said before, things aren't always as they appear. In John's neighborhood, he is well known and I'm in the role of visiting boyfriend." Sherlock said dismissively.

Mycroft appeared ready to argue his side more, but another glare from Sherlock had him tapping on his tablet. "Fine. I just sent you the pictures. So far, we haven't been able to identify him."

Pulling out his phone, Sherlock checked that he had received the information. "Lay off stalking me, Mycroft." He threw open the car door, opening the umbrella as he went.

John followed him out, standing beside Sherlock as he slammed the door, finally able to breathe freely again.

The car drove off, tail lights glowing red reflecting off the wet streets.

Sherlock was looking intensely at his phone, scrolling through some pictures. He made a frustrated sound, and passed it to John.

Standing close beside Sherlock under an umbrella in the pouring rain, John scrolled through the images. Each one was more shocking that the last. It was more grainy black and white pictures, often from strange angles, or obviously zoomed in, the images blurry. They all had one thing in common. The main subject was John's attacker.

"Mycroft's position gives him access to the CCTV cameras all over the U.K. I told him the times and places we saw the man, and he was able to get these images." Sherlock explained softly, even though there was nobody else near them.

John looked up at Sherlock, so many things clicking through his mind. "That's why you stopped me from chasing after him. You knew Mycroft could probably get you information on him."

"Yes, and partially because you can be a little...impulsive. What could have happened if you took off after him, and got into a bad fight? Your hands are your career, John." Sherlock said, his expression hard to read in the shadow of the umbrella.

John followed his impulse, grabbing Sherlock's head with both hands and snogging him senseless. The berk looked a little stunned when he let him go, the umbrella tilted a bit to the side and dripping water on them.

Grabbing the umbrella from Sherlock's loose grasp, John stomped off towards the tube station. "Safe harbor," he grumbled to himself.

It took a minute for Sherlock to catch up to him, ducking under the umbrella and shaking his wet hair like a dog.

John laughed, shoving Sherlock away. But when Sherlock's arm latched around his waist, pulling John firmly against his side, he relented, matching his pace as they walked on.

...

"We have nothing. This has all been futile." Sherlock moaned dramatically.

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was turning out to much more moody than he expected. Being him around him more showed that hour by hour, Sherlock could go from being giddy over a lead to seeming anxious and hopeless a few hours later. Was this just the stress of the situation, or how Sherlock really was?

Tearing off a piece of pita bread, John spread it with hummus and chewed it slowly. "We are working our way through his teammates. You got their addresses from the coach's computer, so we know that's accurate information. They aren't all going to be around when we knock on their doors or have leads for us, Sherlock. Investigating is a lot of leg work and dead ends."

"These athletes are bringing stupid to a new low. If a hungry cannibal cracked their heads open, there wouldn't be enough inside to cover a small water biscuit." Sherlock grumbled, taking a bite of his falafel.

The image had John setting down his fork and pushing his plate away, appetite suddenly gone. "Well, that Jeff guy mentioned Paolo getting sick a couple days before he died. If he was vomiting a lot, that could have left him dehydrated. That would had made his hematocrit higher."

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps, but it's not very strong evidence, is it? It would hardly dissuade the Yard if they come after me."

John couldn't argue against that point, sipping his water as he thought over the case. Jeff had said the team was given a special dinner a couple days before Paolo's last game, one with biogenic meat. People usually called it 'lab meat', and it was almost as expensive and rare as the real thing these days. Unfortunately, Paolo hadn't tolerated it well, and had been sick all night, not looking great the next day, according to Jeff

Maybe it had nothing to do with his death, but the more they found out about his last few days, or even weeks, the more likely they would uncover the truth.

Sherlock still look discouraged. He had eaten well, at least. Perhaps it was futile, but John wanted to cheer him up. They couldn't give up. "Oh, I forgot to tell you about an email I got earlier. Mike mentioned that he he going to an art show tomorrow night with his wife."

Green eyes flicked up to meet his, the dark frames making them even more attractive. Was John getting a fetish about glasses? "That's terribly exciting, John."

Sighing, John glared at the moody git. "They are going with her friends, Felicity and Oscar."

That had Sherlock leaning forward, suddenly all ears. "Really? Where?"

"The Crypt." John read from his email, as he saw a text come in.

 **You better be bringing your new boyfriend to the dinner tonight - Francesca**

 _Shit_. With Sherlock barging into his life, he had completely forgotten that it was the monthly potluck dinner that night. He looked over at Sherlock, busy with his phone. Would it better to take him, or make an excuse?

Well, if they went tonight, he could meet everyone at once, and it would be easier for him to come and go from the building when John was at work. Besides, they were trying to pass as a couple, and if this was a true relationship, John would be proudly introducing him to everyone.

"Mike and everyone else know me, so I should go to the gallery as myself." Sherlock commented, glancing up at John.

The comment had John nodding. It was getting confusing, trying to keep everything straight. Hopefully, this whole situation would be over soon and he could back to his normal life. "Um, yeah. That makes sense."

Sherlock pinned him with a direct gaze. "Should I go alone?"

The question threw John a little. At first, he thought to object, thinking he should be with Sherlock when he questioned Felicity and Oscar. They had done the investigation together so far, after all. But then he thought of being seen out with Sherlock, by people they both knew. Mike had already suggested John was attracted to Sherlock at the memorial service. He would have no problem believing they were dating or in a relationship. That could get awkward later, when Sherlock went back home and they reverted back to how they had been.

John ran a hand through his hair. "I'd like to be there, but not go with you, if you don't mind. Mike doesn't know that we are..." He blanked completely, not knowing what word to use to describe what they had.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, grinning slightly at John's discomfort. "Shacking up?"

"Involved." John corrected with a glare. Sherlock could be very irritating at times. "I'll message Mike that I'm interested in that show, and meet them there. You can make an appearance later on. I'll keep Mike and his wife busy, while you talk to Felicity and Oscar."

Nodding, Sherlock was texting on his phone. "I'll ask my landlady to bring a suit to your flat. I can hardly go dressed like this."

The server came by, clearing away their dishes and leaving some pistachio baklava with the bill.

Looking down at the dessert, John sighed, making a decision about that night. "Um, Sherlock, there's a bit of a gathering planned tonight in the building. Our monthly get together."

Setting down his phone, Sherlock took a bite of the baklava, some honey escaping to drip down onto his chin. He scooped it up with a long finger and sucked it clean. "What does it involve?"

John had a hard time looking away from his mouth. "Everyone brings a dish of food to share, a variety of everything. We eat and visit over supper. It's very casual. It would be seem odd if I don't bring my visiting boyfriend. Plus, you can meet everyone at once. Make it easier to come and go on your own from the building while I'm at work."

"Fine." Sherlock said, not overly concerned, before he went back to finishing the pastry.

 _Then again, they could just go back to the flat right now. Maybe have an afternoon nap..._ All sorts of images were popping in John's head as he watched Sherlock lick the honey off his bottom lip.

But he pushed them down, taking out some cash to cover the bill. Sherlock had been so distant after their morning session, John wanted to hold back a little. Give Sherlock some space. Just because he was staying with John didn't mean he was up for sex as much as John was.

"So, where to next?" John asked, pulling on his coat.

...

There was a knock on the door, and John opened it to an attractive woman in her seventies, with a friendly smile.

"You must be Mrs. Hudson. Please come in. Sherlock is just in the washroom." John waved for her to enter.

She walked in, carrying an old suit bag draped over one arm. "And you must be John Watson." Her eyes were curious as they scanned over him and around the flat.

Sherlock came out of the washroom. "Hudders!" He enfolded the woman in an enthusiastic hug that had her giggling, and thanked her for bringing the suit. He hung it up in the front closet's door.

John made tea and put out some oatmeal raisin cookies. Sherlock eyed them suspiciously but Mrs. Hudson had a few as she caught Sherlock up on everything. John enjoyed seeing Sherlock interacting so easily with the older woman, his affection clear in his manner with her. He needed some normalcy, something to ground him back in reality like this.

"Oh Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson placed her hand on his forearm as she leaned in. "A detective from Scotland Yard was knocking on your door this morning. I told him you had gone away on a trip and I wasn't sure when you'd be back. You don't think they would follow me here, do you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't think they are desperate enough to try things like that yet. If they don't solve the case in a week or so, then maybe."

Getting up, John left them to chat as he made a salad for the dinner later. By the time he finished, it was almost time to go. He looked at the elderly lady, wondering how to get her to leave without seeming rude.

There was a knock on the door, and John found it was Francesca. "Dr. John! Oh good, you are home! You didn't reply to my text earlier so I thought you might be skipping the dinner."

Mrs. Hudson was looking between John and Francesca, clearly wondering what was going on.

"We are coming soon. See you down there." John gave her a forced smile, as he slowly shut the door.

The older woman popped up. "Oh, I'm sorry! You two have dinner plans and I've overstayed my welcome. I'll just get going."

Sherlock seemed to frown slightly as she picked up her purse, looking disappointed at the abrupt end of their talk.

"Um, Mrs. Hudson, would you like to join us? It's just a casual dinner my building has each month. There's always heaps of food, and everyone is quite friendly." John found himself saying. "Plus, Sherlock won't be the only new person there then."

He got big smiles from both of them in return, and it felt quite good. They explained that she would have to call Sherlock 'Frank', and gave her his fake backstory. She chuckled, seeming delighted at being included. They decided to say that she was a friend of Frank's family, keeping things as vague as possible.

John went to tidy up and change into fresh clothes, feeling a bit nervous about the evening. Sherlock had been moody all day. Would he behave himself around John's neighbours? John still had to live with them after Sherlock moved back to his own flat. Would Mrs. Hudson remember to call Sherlock 'Frank'? Would she be able to keep their story straight?

...

A/N: -Sherlock is pretty moody in this chapter. He is feeling stressed about the investigation, and also feels confused about what's going on with his relationship with John.

-Ideas for the future: I'm exploring a lot of different 'what if' scenarios in this fic. This is just one possible way the future could turn out, and it's interesting to consider how things could be affected.

-CCTV Cameras: The UK is one of the most surveilled nations in the world. An estimated 5.9 million CCTV cameras keep watch over 65 million Brits' every move.

-Insult: 'If a hungry cannibal cracked their heads open, there wouldn't be enough inside to cover a small water biscuit' -This insult is from the BBC comedy TV series Black Adder (1983-1988). It starred Rowan Atkinson, Tony Robinson and Hugh Laurie. Each series was set in a different historical period. It is ranked as Britain's second favorite sitcom (Only Fools and Horses is #1), and #16 in the list of the 100 Greatest British TV Programs.

-Arable land use: Currently in the UK, they produce 60% of their own food, and the rest is imported. 25% of the UK is arable, and 45% is grassland, woodland and rough grazing. Wales and Scotland have a lower agricultural yield as it is too hilly for growing crops. Sheep and dairy farming is more common there.

There is a limited amount of arable land (suitable for growing crops) in the world, and with a growing population, it will be needed to feed as many humans as possible. A 10-acre farm can support 60 people by growing soybeans, 24 people by growing wheat or 10 people by growing maize, but only two by raising cattle. In this version of the future, the government will restrict arable land use to producing crops for human consumption. Land devoted to raising livestock will be limited, so the cost of meat will go up until most people can't afford it, and they will become mostly vegetarians due to economics. Meat will become a rare luxury item.

-Lab Meat: Articles about food in the future mention that it may be possible to grow 'meat' in a lab setting. Instead of raising a whole cow that we only eat 40% of, it is a better use of resources to just grow a steak. It could use less energy, could be made healthier, and would be cruelty-free. In a future where meat is expensive, this may be a viable option.

-'Biogenic' body parts: Similar to lab meat, there is also the possibility of making body parts in the lab. Generating ligaments, tendons, muscles, skin, and maybe even organs or limbs. It would eliminate rejection issues that we currently have from transplanting these body parts from other people. Currently, people with organ transplants need to take drugs for the rest of their lives to repress their own immune system from rejecting the organ.

In this future, I have John discuss using a biogenic ligament in the athlete's knee surgery. I doubt we will be able to create complex organs within thirty years, but hopefully smaller, simpler body parts will be available.

-Potluck dinner: I checked with a British friend if they use this term, and she wasn't familiar with it. Maybe it will spread to that country in thirty years. I'm in Canada, and we hold 'potlucks' where all the guests bring a family sized dish of food. The food is set out buffet style and everyone shares everything. Often people are assigned a category of food to bring (salad, dessert) so there is a good selection available. It shares the work and the cost of having a dinner party, and it's a fun way to try other people's cooking.

One possible origin of the practice could come from 'potlatch', a word meaning "to give away". A potlatch is a gift-giving feast practiced by indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest Coast of Canada and the United States. The status of any given family is raised not by who has the most resources, but by who distributes the most resources. The hosts demonstrate their wealth and prominence through giving away goods at the feast.


	9. Chapter 9

The first floor common room was full by the time they made it there. John led Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock through the room packed full of people, setting his salad down on the food-laden table.

After getting them some wine, he took them around, simply introducing them as Martha and Frank. It was a little funny that Sherlock didn't know Mrs. Hudson's first name, after knowing her so many years. Everyone greeted them warmly and invited them to help themselves to some food.

The tables had been cleared of the normal things, and everyone was casually gathered all over the room. Kids ran around, playing together, between the tables. Some cheerful instrumental music was playing from a nearby stereo.

They picked up empty plates from the stack, and started scooping up small amounts of the various dishes, carrying them back to a table with space for them.

John groaned when he saw Francesca sitting across from them, chatting animatedly with a beautiful woman with long dark hair. He hadn't seen her for ages. Why tonight, of all nights?

Some teens cleared away their dishes when they were done, and a dish of apple crisp was set out, hot from the oven.

A ten-year-old girl settled down on the chair beside Sherlock, digging in happily to her dessert.

He gave her a look of distaste. "I don't know how you can eat that."

She chuckled, licking her spoon clean. "Why not? It's delicious!" She seemed quite proud at using the long word.

John rolled his eyes. "Margo grew up with LOC mix. It's perfectly normal for her."

"And it's so healthy. I'm always telling Sh-Frank that." Martha gave Sherlock a pointed look.

His jaw set in a firm line at being ganged up on. "You two are just as bad as everyone else. Believing all the government propaganda."

"I wasn't here for the worst part of it, but I have plenty of friends in medical fields who gave me first hand accounts. So many kids with swollen bellies, losing their hair. All the classic symptoms of protein deficiency." John shook his head.

Francesca looked over at them with a big smile, catching the last part of what John had said. "Oh, are you talking about eating bugs?" She chuckled. "Remember how grossed out everyone was at first?"

Her dark haired friend laughed along with her. "It was practically like a dare, wasn't it, the first time everyone tried something cooked with bug flour? John almost got sick."

John gave her a frustrated huff. "I've told you a hundred times, I was getting the flu."

"Yeah, yeah..." She grinned widely at him.

Turning towards Sherlock and Martha, he waved towards the women. "Frank, Martha, this is Francesca and an old friend of ours, Janine." The women hadn't been in the room when they had arrived.

"Old friend! Is that what you are calling me these days?" Janine shot back playfully, pretending to be outraged.

John felt a little uncomfortable, seeing how attentively Sherlock's eyes were flicking back and forth between them. He had probably already figured it all out, the berk. "When I came back to England in 2030, Janine was one of my roommates. We were in a relationship for several years, and I can't seem to get away from Dreary Fat Boring Old Git."

"We have too many friends in common for that, Sniveling Little Rat-Faced Watson." Janine shot back, giving just as good as she got, like always.

Martha was chuckling. "Oh, I remember that Monty Python sketch. What were the kids' names again?"

"Dirty Lying Little Two-Faced Git!"

"Ghastly Spotty Horrible Vicious Little Git!"

They both shouted out the answers at the same time, and ended up laughing together.

Sherlock was giving them a strange look.

Francesca reached over, patting his arm. "Don't be alarmed, Frank. They are always like this when they are together. They are more like brother and sister these days."

Janine stuck her tongue out at John. "I was too young and pretty for him to keep me." She looked Sherlock over appraisingly. "Doesn't look like he's learned his lesson yet."

John scoffed at that comment.

"So, what was John like, back then?" Sherlock asked.

Her brown eyes warmed. "He was a little lost, actually. The shoulder injury was still healing, and he wasn't really sure what he could do anymore."

John rolled the shoulder, the motion quite easy. "It wasn't until I had that second surgery that things got better." He turned towards Martha and Sherlock. "I realized then how much orthopedic surgeons could help people, and ended up going back to school to specialize in it. I shared a flat with some other students. Janine was one of them."

"I had to show him how to do everything. Things had changed so much while he was away." Janine added.

"What changed?" Margo piped up, now finished her dessert and just listening to their conversation, probably not understanding half of it.

John grabbed her around the waist, dragging her onto his lap to tickle her, making her squirm and laugh up at him. Eventually, he held her in a light hold. "Well, when I was your age, the world was a lot different."

"People lived in big houses or big flats."

"Many people had cars and drove them everywhere."

"There were stores everywhere full of wonderful things from all over the world."

Francesca, Janine and Martha had added in their comments, and Margo was looking at them all in turn.

"We took it all for granted." John continued. "And then one day, everything got more and more expensive. People couldn't buy as much, couldn't drive around, and had to move into smaller flats."

"Why? What happened?" Margo asked. This was all taught in school, but most kids still enjoyed hearing stories about the past.

John looked towards his friends, searching for an easy way to explain it.

Janine helped him out. "Machines back then mostly ran on petrol. For a long time, it was easy to get it out of the ground, but eventually there wasn't much left."

In the army, John had been shielded from most of the changes. He had been amazed at emails from friends back home, talking about petrol prices tripling, and how fast the prices of imported goods rose afterwards. It became too costly to ship most goods from far away. Stores became emptier and emptier, and the government tried to control the panic by instating the first non-wartime rationing in the country. Basic foods and clothing were price controlled too.

Giving Margo a little squeeze, John tried to be more cheerful. "But it all worked out in the end. People are actually a lot healthier now, walking and cycling to get around."

"Eating fruit and vegetables that they grow in their own gardens." Francesca added.

"Less pollution." Janine said. She tilted her head a little at Sherlock. "So, have you never tried LOC mix?"

John chuckled, looking over at him. Janine wasn't one to back down when she got an idea in her head.

He shook his head, looking down his nose at her slightly. "No. I've always been able to afford decent food."

"It's mostly lentil flour and oatmeal. Only a quarter of it is cricket flour. It tastes like normal oatmeal." Janine argued.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Thanks, but I've already eaten."

"But you didn't have any dessert." Margo said, giggling as she scooted off John's lap, and came back with some apple crisp, settling it down in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock gave his now familiar look of disgust, not picking up the fork.

Margo leaned against his side. "C'mon. It's really good for you. Just try one bite." She looked up at him beseechingly.

John tried not to smirk when Sherlock picked up the fork, taking the smallest bite of the dessert possible. He set the fork down, empty, but John could tell he wasn't chewing the food yet, just holding it in his mouth.

He wasn't sure who whistled first, because others joined in pretty fast. Some were better than others, their whistles sounding just like crickets chirping.

Sherlock's face paled, and he jumped up, running out the back door really fast. Everyone was laughing hard, including John.

He got up slowly. "I better go check on him." He grabbed a glass of water as he left.

Sherlock was standing in the back garden, bracing one hand against the wall as he coughed and spat. John passed him the water, and he took a long, grateful sip. Swishing it around his mouth, he spat the water out. He drank the rest.

John guided him over to a bench. It was nice and dark out now, cool but not cold. He rubbed a hand over Sherlock's back. "Doing OK now?"

"Your friends are evil. That girl child especially. Spawn of Satan." Sherlock declared.

John shrugged. "You should take it as a sign they accept you. You have been initiated into our circle."

Sherlock made a sound, halfway between a scoff and a laugh. "How long have you lived here?"

Glancing back towards the open doorway, the glow of lights illuminating the happy crowd inside, John thought back. "Eight years, I guess. I was watching for a place like this, and jumped at the first opening."

"Why?" It was so different than Sherlock's large flat full of old stuff.

John remembered that morning, Sherlock asking him the same question. "My family was middle class. We had the basics, but nothing too fancy. I ended up funding my medical education by promising the army six years of service. Then I was back here, living cheap to afford going back to school. By then, most people were living in smaller flats, not into buying as much stuff. I was never really in the habit of living in fancier places."

"But why this place?" Sherlock waved towards the party.

It was still a bit strange, talking about personal things with him. They had been so open sexually with each other, but really hadn't talked about other things. "My parents died in a car accident when I was twenty. My older sister has always battled addictions, and she's living in Scotland now. We've never been that close. People in this building, they are my family."

He had friends that lived in similar buildings, and had liked it from the start. There was a good mix of people of all ages, and they all got to know each other at these dinners and working on the gardens. That meant more to him than having a large, fancy flat.

Mrs. Hudson was standing at the doorway, looking for them in the dark garden.

"It's getting late. Do you want to walk her to the tube station?" John asked softly. It would give Sherlock some more time to visit with his friend.

Nodding, Sherlock got up and they soon made their goodbyes to the other people at the party.

John got some tea and sat back down at the table. Francesca was across the room, talking with the residential farmer. Janine was still there.

"I like Frank." Janine said simply. She had always been someone who spoke her mind, always very open about things. "And I can tell you really like him too."

Taking another sip of tea, John wondered how to answer. He decided to stick as close to the truth as he could. Janine knew him better than anyone else in the world, probably. "I do. But I'm a little bit scared about it. About 'us'."

Janine rolled her eyes. "You are such a worrier sometimes. Let things happen, don't be afraid of your feelings. He likes you too."

Sighing, John set down his cup. "I like being with him, but I don't think we are similar enough to really work in a long term relationship. He comes from a really posh family, is used to living the old way."

"But look at how he is dressed! And how willing he was to chat and try to fit in with everyone tonight. He's making an effort, trying to please you." Janine argued back, her dark eyes full of caring for John. They truly still loved each other, really wanting the best for each other.

John nodded as he sipped more tea. Sherlock had been wearing clothes John picked out, and acting his boyfriend role, so her arguments didn't carry much weight. Sherlock had been friendly with everyone, at least. The chaos of the big group didn't seem to faze him.

"Only time will tell. It's still so early in the relationship." John finally replied, not wanting to get her hopes up in case things ended when Sherlock moved back home. Not wanting to get his own hopes up, if he was being really honest with himself. Sherlock was turning out to be so much more than attractive and good in bed. He was smart, funny and showed how warm he could be, chatting today with Mrs. Hudson. She seemed almost like a mother figure to him.

Janine gave him a cheeky grin. "Oh, the early stages. The barely-make-it-out-of-bed stages."

Francesca was just sitting down as she said that, and she chuckled. "Are you talking about Frank? Isn't he gorgeous? So tall and those eyes..."

"Lucky John. The only reason I'd kick a bloke like that out of my bed would be to fuck him on the floor." Janine quipped, loving John's look of discomfort.

"I'd like to jump his bones until he rattles." Francesca shot back with a big grin.

"He's the sort I'd fall madly in bed with."

"I'd bang him until he was cross-eyed."

"I'd bang him until I was cross-eyed."

"I'd bang him like a screen door in a hurricane."

"His ass is proof of a loving and all powerful higher power."

"Ladies!" John held up his hands, glaring at his two friends to get them to shut up. "Enough." He was glad that the families with young kids had left the party by now. A few of his neighbors still looked over, chuckling at the women's comments.

His objections fell on deaf ears. He could tell the women were just warming up, and he was likely to be teased without mercy if he stuck around any longer.

"Goodnight, everybody." John got up, and grabbed his empty salad bowl.

"Night John!" He heard Janine call out as he made his escape. "Give Frank a big goodnight kiss for us!"

"Preferably a long, naked kiss..." Francesca added.

John just shook his head and went back to his flat.

...

"John's lovely, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson said softly as they walked towards the tube station. It was dark out, and there weren't that many people out of the streets. Occasionally, a bike rider would whiz past, their headlight a brief glow of light.

Sherlock put his hands into his pockets, glancing sideways at her. "You liked him, then?" Mrs. Hudson had rarely met the people he got involved with in the past.

She nodded. "And you like him too. I can tell."

Sherlock sighed, tilting his head up to see the waxing moon high above. "Yes, but how much is real? This strange situation might just be making things seem like more than they really are."

"He's a kind, smart man. And from the noises you two were making in your flat all those times, I can tell you get along well." She grinned a bit mischievously.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock didn't dignify that with a response. The less he thought about what she could overhear from his flat, the better.

Besides being sexually compatible, it had been surprising how easy it was to be around John. Eating together, sleeping together, travelling all over London, investigating his case. John had proved to be excellent to bounce theories off of, helping Sherlock work through it all. Coming up with great ideas. Handling Mrs. Baresi perfectly, getting her talking so openly. Going along with Sherlock's various roles, whatever they needed to get the information.

"You are thinking about the case, aren't you."? Mrs. Hudson commented, her hand giving his arm a comforting squeeze. "Seeing the police at your flat scared me, Sherlock. This could really get bad."

"I know." Sherlock said, stopping at the station entrance, and turning to face her. Mrs. Hudson had been a true constant in his life since he moved back to London. "I'm doing my best to get to the truth."

They had made good progress, and tomorrow John was going to review his old files on Paolo. See what else he could find out. Sherlock was going to try seeing the other teammates they hadn't seen today. And then talking to Felicity and Oscar at the art show.

What else had Paolo been doing in his last month or two? Who had attacked John? Was he involved in the case somehow? They had shown his picture to his teammates, but none so far recognized him.

Mrs. Hudson gathered him into a tight hug. "Keep me updated, Sherlock. I'm worried about you. I don't want anything to happen to you."

"Mostly you are just worried about having to clear out the flat, aren't you?" Sherlock tried to joke, but his delivery fell a bit flat.

She loosened her hold on him, tipping her head up to give him a small smile. "There's all the stuff, all the science equipment. I guess I'd just pack it in boxes and take it to a school." She played along, but then her eyes became serious. "You have to beat this, Sherlock. I know you bend the rules sometimes, but there is no way you are a murderer. I can't bear hearing people spreading such lies about you."

"People are starting to talk about me that way? Already?" Sherlock lowered his brow, looking at her with concern. The ball of anxiety in his stomach tightened.

She let him go, nodding sadly. "I overheard a couple neighbours at the market, and some people in passing on the street near the flat. It's been in the news a fair bit, and they aren't right out accusing you. Just saying you are a 'person of interest'."

"It might be safer if you went to stay with your sister for a week or two. I don't want anything to happen to you."

Going on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. "Be careful, Sherlock."

He nodded as he watched her go. It would be the last time he would chance seeing her until this was all resolved. Or he was in jail. He couldn't put her at risk being around him.

As he slowly walked back to the flat, he became more concerned, thinking about the case. What if they talked to everyone, followed every lead, and came up with nothing substantial? Nothing that cleared him?

Would he have to run? Get Mycroft to pull some strings, pull some favours to get him out of the country? He was always asking if Sherlock wanted to try spy work, suggesting his intelligence and scientific knowledge would be useful. Infiltrating and stealing other countries' ideas.

It was a possible out, if he needed it. If things got desperate enough. Better than jail, but just barely. He had a life here he wasn't going to give up that easily. His flat, his work, his clients. He loved it all.

And now there was John too...

The thought of John back in his flat made Sherlock walk faster. Suddenly just wanting, needing, to be with him. Holding him tight. The mindless escape of sex. The comfort of hearing his breathing slow as he fell asleep. The warmth of his body cuddled against his own, sharing the covers.

...

-Disclaimer: I hope this doesn't come off as too preachy! Just so you know, I eat meat and drive a car. I recycle, but I'm usually too cheap to buy the organic veggies at the supermarket. I also live in an area where the oil industry is a big part of our economy.

-Protein Deficiency: When people get enough calories, but not enough protein in their diet, it's a nutritional disorder called 'kwashiorkor'. It results in an extremely emaciated appearance in all body parts except the ankles, feet and belly, which swell with fluid (edema). Symptoms include change in skin and hair color and texture, fatigue, diarrhea, loss of muscle mass, failure to grow or gain weight, damaged immune system, flaky rash, and irritability. If left untreated, it can lead to coma, shock and death. Today, it is most common where there is a lack of food, like sub-Saharan Africa, Southeast Asia and Central America. Famines are usually from natural disasters (droughts and floods) or political unrest. Toddlers are at particular risk for developing it when they are weaned off of protein-rich breast milk to the low protein diet of poorer areas. In this version of the future, it was being seen in poor and middle class families who couldn't afford meat anymore and hadn't adapted to including enough non-meat protein in their diet. They got enough calories from fruit, veggies, carbs and fat to feel full, but started showing symptoms of the disorder in a few months.

-Eating Bugs: When you google 'Foods of the Future' almost every article mentions eating bugs as a source of protein. Currently, 2 billion people in 80% of the world's nations eat insects daily. It is estimated that the population will be 9 billion by 2050, and it will be hard to keep up with protein/food needs with current dietary practices.

Insects are a great source of protein, vitamins and minerals. They have the same or greater amount of iron than beef. They are more environmentally sustainable; emitting much less greenhouse gases, require little water and less feed/pound than any other animal protein.

-LOC mix: I totally made this up. Assuming the UK government responded to protein deficiency in a lot of the population, they got the universities to develop an inexpensive, shelf-stable, easy-to-prepare alternative protein source. LOC stands for Lentil, Oatmeal and Cricket. Cricket and lentil flours make up half of the mixture, and you can actually buy these now. 1 cup of the mix provides 350 calories, 29 g protein, 40 g carbs, 8 g fat and 8 g fiber, with good levels of iron. 3 servings a day would provide ½ the calories, and almost all the protein and fiber an adult needs (assuming 2000 cal/day). It can be eaten as a hot cereal, baked into cookies and granola bars, and added to other foods since it doesn't have much flavor on it's own.

-Dreary Fat Boring Old Git, Sniveling Little Rat-Faced Watson: A skit from the sketch comedy TV Show 'Monty Pythons' Flying Circus' (1969-1974), featuring Michael Palin, Terry Jones and John Cleese (looking fetching in a floral dress and big red wig).

-Army Doctor: The British Army currently awards up to 30 medical cadetships every year. Generally, the last three years of their medical education tuition is covered along with £15 000 or more a year, in return for six years service after the doctor has completed their first foundation year.

-Orthopaedic Surgeons: "In order to become an orthopaedic surgeon, you must first complete a medical school program. You will then complete a 4 to 5 year residency in orthopaedic surgery. If you choose to practice a subspecialty, you also need to complete a 1 to 2 year fellowship."

-Peak Oil: In this version of the future, oil prices go up a lot around 2025. At first, everyone thinks it a short term blip, like we had when the price of a barrel of crude oil almost tripled to $147 USD in July 2008. But it lasts, and pretty soon it's too expensive to drive much. People take transit or other ways to get to work. Goods that are shipped from far away increase in price to cover higher transport costs. Pretty soon, people stop buying the more expensive goods, and stores stop stocking them. It becomes cheaper to buy locally produced goods as much as possible. Imports tend to be small, light things that can be sold for high prices, like spices, tea and electronics. This AU assumes that alternative energy sources are being used, but haven't been able to make up for the loss of cheap oil.

-Rationing, Price controls: In WWII, Germany kept most imported goods from reaching Britain, trying to starve them out. The Ministry of Food gave out rationing books to ensure everyone got a fair share of goods that were limited, and prevented panic buying. Recycling was encouraged, and making do and mending clothing. People sewed and knitted, and gardened more.

-Fewer Cars: Currently, over 50% of people living in inner areas of London don't own a car. They rely on transit and walking in the city.


	10. Chapter 10

Shutting his office door with a sigh of relief, John sat down behind his desk and sipped his tea. It had been busy with patients earlier, but he had a last minute cancellation and was enjoying the break.

After such a busy weekend with Sherlock, it was nice to have some normalcy and quiet.

Opening up his offices files on the computer, he searched for Paolo. All his records for both surgeries were there. John read them over carefully, watching for medical abnormalities. Any small thing that could have contributed to his eventual death. John knew it was a long shot, but he wanted to help however possible.

The first surgery on his Achilles' tendon had been when he was younger and in practically perfect health. He had recovered quickly. John frowned slightly, looking at the blood tests prior to the surgery. He showed signs of anemia, but that wasn't that unusual anymore, since people ate meat so rarely. John now recalled treating him for the anemia at that time.

A few years later, Paolo hadn't been doing as well for his knee surgery. Years of professional sports had taken their toll. The performance enhancing drugs had left their side effects as well. During the examination, John had palpitated his chest and noticed some organs were enlarged. His skin wasn't clear. Many joints showed signs of over-use damage, although his knee was the worst. His former anemia was not apparent, one of the few improvements he showed.

It was disappointing that the records didn't give any new insights. John really wanted to help Sherlock resolve this as soon as possible.

The story was really getting discussed in the news more and more, fans speculating. He had heard snippets of conversation around the office building; Paola's and Sherlock's name being mentioned.

He got home as soon as possible after work. Sherlock was lying on a chair, tablet clenched in his hands. He looked up, his expression miserable, and passed the tablet to John.

Sitting down in the other chair, John played the video that was queued up from a news website. It was a press conference from Scotland Yard, from an hour earlier.

DI Lestrade faced the cameras, seated at a table alone. "The autopsy report for Paolo Baresi was released Friday, with his cause of death showing as a heart attack. Preliminary investigations suggest it may not have been due to natural causes. The investigation is ongoing but I will take questions now."

A dozen hands flew up, and the D.I. nodded to a reporter in the front row.

"Why is homicide investigating this? Was he murdered?"

Lestrade sighed slightly. "He was a young, fit professional athlete. Heart attacks can occur, but we need to be sure of the cause."

The next reporter was less restrained. "It is common knowledge that he was getting treatments from Sherlock Holmes. Why isn't he in custody?" There were murmurs of agreement from the other reporters.

Running a hand through his salt and pepper hair, the detective seemed exhausted. "He is a person of interest we are seeking for questioning."

The room erupted at that, jumping up and shouting questions at him. A pack of hounds catching scent of a juicy story.

"He is missing?"

"Has he left the country?"

"Isn't that a sure sign of his guilt?"

Making a settle down gesture, Lestrade eventually had the crowd back in their seats. "As I said, he is only ONE of the people we are questioning for this investigation. If anyone in the public has information, our website has a place you can leave tips." The video ended soon after that.

John set down the tablet, feeling stunned. "He basically put a bounty on your head."

Rolling over on to his side, Sherlock nodded slowly. His expression reminded John of when he had arrived a couple days ago. Anxious, scared. Pale and wretched.

John slid to the floor in front of Sherlock's chair, their faces almost close enough to kiss. He looked at Sherlock directly, full eye contact. "You need to talk to the police. Go now. They don't have enough to charge you, so they can't hold you, but you won't look as guilty then."

It was terrifying, but Sherlock needed to be smart about this. Hiding put him in an awful light to the public.

Sherlock looked down, avoiding John's gaze. "I can't do that."

Making a sound almost like a growl, John shoved a hand into Sherlock's hair, dragging his face up. "Why? Quit playing around, Sherlock. This is dangerous. Your whole future depends on what you do now."

"You are right. It's dangerous. I don't want your good name being smeared with mine. I should go." Sherlock sat up, his emotions shoved down, his face now distant and blank.

"Fuck!" John jumped to his feet, pacing a little. "That wasn't what I meant. I could give fuck-all about my reputation right now. I'm worried about you!"

"Why? I'm just a hook-up who inconveniently showed up on your door, uninvited and evading the police. You didn't ask for any of this." He shook his head, looking defeated by it all.

John yanked him up to stand in front of him, staring at him. "You really think that's all you are to me?"

It started as a hard kiss, just meant to show Sherlock just how wrong he was. But the instant his arms came around John and he was returning the kiss, it deepened.

Somehow, they ended up on Sherlock's chair, John straddling his lap. When he finally lifted his head, he looked down at Sherlock, happy to see his lips swollen and his eyes meeting his gaze. "We are going to figure this out together. You aren't going anywhere."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. But I can't go to the police until I have something more solid to give them. If I say his mother has some vague notion that he was getting treatments from other people, or he vomited a couple days before, they will just shrug their shoulders and dismiss it as me desperately grasping at straws to save myself."

John eventually nodded. He didn't completely agree, but could see his point. "Fine, but you can't wait much longer to see the them. One more day, Sherlock, then you go in. Promise me."

"Wednesday morning." He said, looking a little stressed again.

"Can your brother help at all?" John asked, knowing how powerful the man was.

Sherlock shook his head. "I want to leave him out of this if possible. He has never been involved in my business."

John eased off his lap to sit beside him, taking his hand. "We need to face that maybe we have done all we can. I looked through my medical files on Paolo, and he seemed like other athletes I've treated. A bit of anemia when I first saw him, but that wasn't present when I last saw him."

"Yeah, and I talked to the rest of his teammates today. I'm glad I did it before this press conference." Sherlock said.

"Well, your disguise is quite good. I'm sure they don't know you are Sherlock Holmes."

Glancing at the suit Mrs. Hudson had brought yesterday, Sherlock looked a bit grim. "But I have to go to that art show tonight, looking like myself. I can't miss this chance to talk to Felicity and Oscar."

John's stomach tightened at the thought. "I'll go. I'll talk to them. I know Felicity a little from Paolo's last surgery."

"No. I need to face them. It will reinforce that I wasn't the cause of his death. Plus, they are my last hope for some kind of lead. I've talked to everyone else." Sherlock said firmly.

John could tell there was no arguing with him. He knew the stakes, but was going to risk it anyways for the slim chance of some information. "I'll keep Mike and Eva out of your way, give you clear access to Felicity and Oscar, for as long as I can."

It wasn't much, but he could tell Sherlock appreciated it. He squeezed John's hand before getting up. "I'm going to shower and shave."

...

John sipped his red wine as his eyes took in the four hundred year old painting. A bare chested, bearded man wrapped in a rust colored loose toga leaned towards a fruit laden tree branch, his expression tortured.

"Do you know the Greek myth this is based on?" Mike asked, joining John to peruse the piece.

Shaking his head, John looked over at his friend, and his wife, Eva. They were both dressed nicely, Mike in a navy suit and Eva a dark purple dress that suited her dark blonde hair. It was always good to spend time with the couple that he had known for so long.

Mike gave a little shrug. "Tantalus was a favorite son of Zeus, and he was one of the few mortals who were allowed to dine with the gods. But he pushed it too far, stealing some of the forbidden nectar and ambrosia to share with his friends back home."

"Yeah, you really shouldn't shove stuff into your pockets when at a dinner party. That's quite rude." John chuckled. "But at least he was going to share it with other people."

Eva nodded along. "Ambrosia? Isn't that the incredibly unhealthy 'salad' made out of marshmallows, maraschino cherries, mandarin oranges and whip cream? It's delicious. I can see why he took some."

"Heathens. It's actually the food of the gods, and it can make you live longer, maybe even make you immortal." Mike took another sip of wine. "So, his punishment was being thrown into the Underworld, inside a lake with a threatening rock dominating right above him, ready to crush him at any time. The lake was full of water, and there were lots of fruit-laden trees hanging nearby."

John grinned. "This sounds fishy. How did the trees grow without sunlight?"

Mike ignored his comment. "The worst part was every time he wanted to drink water, the lake dried up. Every time he got hungry and tried to pick some fruit, the wind took the trees up to the sky. He ended up starving and terrified."

"Well, at least he got a break from sitting in the lake that way. Imagine how pruny his skin would be after an hour or two." Eva joked.

"Yeah, and it sounds like he couldn't move from that spot, so pretty soon he would have had to answer the call of nature, and not really wanted to drink the water anyways." John added.

Rolling his eyes at them, Mike took their joking in stride. "That's why the myth is referred to as 'The Torment of Tantalus."

John peered closer at the painting. "Oh, so his one hand is up over his head in case that rock falls on him."

"How long can you go without water? A day?" Eva asked, looking at the painting as well.

"Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food." John answered.

Mike nodded in agreement. "Although he would probably get dehydrated even faster if those winds kept blowing the trees away."

They kept joking around like that as they circled the gallery, viewing the various paintings of greek mythical figures from a private collection. The gallery was a great setting for the art, the brick walls of the two hundred year old crypt arching nine feet above their heads. Track lighting down the center directed soft, golden light around the space, highlighting the architecture and keeping it from feeling claustrophobic.

Near the stairs, they saw Felicity and Oscar, looking at a beautiful painting of Helen of Troy and Prince Paris. They greeted Mike and Eva warmly. John hung back a little, since he didn't know them as well.

Felicity looked lovely, her blond wavy hair almost coming down to her waist, her raspberry dress complimenting her light tan. Oscar was dressed in a simple white dress shirt, and narrow black trousers, perfectly tailored to his slim, athletic body.

"You remember John Watson, right?" Mike turned to bring him forward.

Nodding in recognition, Felicity gave John a small smile. "Of course. Good to see you again, doctor." She turned to Oscar, speaking in a soft voice. "John was Paolo's knee surgeon."

Oscar met his glance with a small tilt to his head. "Sorry we are so late. We ended up at the old St Pancras location. Funny to think this is referred to as the 'new' St Pancras."

Felicity chuckled with him, and looked at the others. "An old deaf lady nearby was trying to explain that we were at the wrong church. We kept shouting 'St Pancras!' and she kept shaking her head and pointing south and shouting back 'Euston!' We thought she couldn't hear us properly, so it went on for a few minutes. Finally, someone else stopped by us and explained to go to the location on Euston Road."

"'Look for the four Greek lady statues!'" Oscar said back.

John laughed along with them. Old St. Pancras was one of the oldest churches in England. New St. Pancras had been built 200 years ago a mile south, in a Greek revival style. The entrance to the crypt was guarded by four tall columns sculpted into the shape of women in Greek dress. The design was inspired by the temple on Acropolis in Athens.

They toured further around the gallery, splitting into smaller groups of two or three occasionally. John kept an eye out for Sherlock, knowing he had to be ready to pull Mike and Eva away then

Rounding a corner, John saw Sherlock standing at the bar. Glancing back, he saw that Mike and Eva were still a few paintings behind the rest of them, discussing a piece of work.

He went over to Felicity and Oscar. "You two probably haven't even had a drink yet! We had a round when we got here."

Oscar glanced towards the bar. "You were having a relaxing drink while we were arguing with old deaf women." He chuckled, pulling Felicity over to the bar.

John waited a heartbeat or two, and saw when the couple noticed Sherlock. He smiled, taking a step towards them. John couldn't wait any longer to see how he was received.

Going back around the corner, he stopped beside Eva and Mike. They were looking at a painting of a woman in a white dress being grabbed by a man carrying a sword and wearing a helmet.

"She warned them all, and they didn't believe her. I'm surprised she didn't go crazy, knowing terrible things were going to happen, and not being able to stop them." Eva said, shaking her head slowly.

Mike shrugged. "People don't always want to hear bad news. But you'd think her own brother would believe her, at least."

John chuckled at the comment. He knew the Greek myth of Cassandra, at least. "What could she say and be believed? "Yo Bro! You are going to meet the most beautiful woman in the world soon, and totally dig each other. But she's married, and if you try to get with her, it will result in a war?"

"How about 'Look that Trojan gift horse in the mouth'?" Eva joked back.

Mike wrapped an arm around Eva's waist, guiding her around the corner. "Do you think that's where that phrase originated? From the Trojan Horse?"

John glanced nervously over at the bar. Sherlock was chatting with Felicity and Oscar, and it seemed friendly. Sherlock was getting a few looks of recognition from other people in the gallery, and people were also noticing who he was with.

Wanting to give Sherlock a few more minutes, he turned back to Mike and Eva. "What did you think about Paolo Baresi's autopsy results? What do you think caused his heart attack?" It would also be good get Mike's thoughts on it, and Eva was a physiotherapist. She might have her own take as well.

Wrinkling his brow a little, Mike paused for a moment. "Well, his hematocrit was very high. If that was a chronic condition, you can imagine the stress it put on his heart over time. Is it any wonder it eventually gave out?"

"And wasn't his heart much larger than normal as well?" Eva interjected.

John nodded. "Yes, I went to the autopsy and commented to the pathologist about that. 545 grams."

Mike shrugged. "Cardiac enlargement is a characteristic of most forms of heart failure."

"But not unusual in a professional athlete." John argued back.

Eva agreed. "At his level, they can run over 10 km a match. We've seen our share of athletes at the clinic."

"Anabolic steroids have been linked to left ventricular dysfunction as well. Did Sherlock ever really disclose what he had Paolo on?" Mike asked John.

John was taking a sip of his wine, and was looking over at the bar. Sherlock seemed to be ending his chat with the couple.

"John?"

Hearing his name made him turn back to Mike. "Sorry, can you repeat that?"

Mike shook his head, chuckling. He turned to wink at Eva. "See? I told you that John was interested in Sherlock. Here's blatant evidence, right before our eyes."

"Well, can you blame him? He's gorgeous in that suit." Eva said, her admiration obvious as she glanced at Sherlock.

John looked back at Sherlock, noticing that he was wearing a steel blue suit, obviously bespoke by the perfect cut of it. His white dress shirt was open at the collar. It was nice seeing his dark curls, and his clean-shaven face. After being with 'Frank' in baggy beige clothing, it was even more striking seeing Sherlock looking so polished.

Mike nudged him with an elbow. "Why don't you go over there? Buy him a drink."

"Give it a rest, Mike. He really isn't my type." John said, keeping to what he had said at the memorial service.

"My mother used to warn me about guys like him." Eva smiled wryly at John. "Good girls want a bad boy who will be good just for them."

Mike wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her close. "And bad boys want a good girl who will be bad just for them."

She gave him a saucy smile back, and he leaned in to kiss her. "My naughty, dirty girl..."

John probably wasn't supposed to hear that whisper, and he shook his head as he stepped away. "Ack! This is a public space!"

Mike chuckled. "That's rich coming from Three Continents Watson!"

Nearby, John overheard an older woman speaking softly into her phone. " _Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. The Crypt gallery on Euston. Come quick, before he leaves."_

 _Who was she talking to? Reporters? The Police?_

He gave Mike a quick smile in response to his teasing. "Um… I'm just going to the loo. Back in a minute." John excused himself to stride over to the hallway with the toilet sign above. He caught Sherlock's eyes as he went, tilting his head towards the hallway. He could only hope that Sherlock got the message.

Standing in the men's washroom, heart pounding, it was only a few seconds but felt like hours before the door opened and Sherlock stepped in.

John grabbed his arm. "You have to leave, now. I overheard someone on a phone, and I think they were telling the cops you are here."

Sherlock nodded. "Fine. I'll cut out the back. I left a coat and the cap out there. Make your goodbyes and meet me at Somerstown on Charlton St."

Nodding, John went into a stall as Sherlock left, just taking a second to calm down. Try to look normal.

"Sorry, but I have to head back to the hospital. One of my patients is showing signs of possible post-op infection." John said, pocketing his phone, as he stood in front of Mike and Eva.

Mike nodded, clapping him on the shoulder. "I understand. Well, it was good seeing you, even if our visit was quick."

John said his goodbyes, and was soon out the door. By the time he was at the end of the block, he could see the flashing lights of the police car pulling up in front of the gallery. He went around the corner, heart thumping again.

The press conference earlier, the looks Sherlock was getting in the gallery, the police showing up so quickly here…it was all making it sink in that Sherlock was truly the main suspect in Paolo's death. Sherlock was right. Without a strong alternative, Sherlock would have a hard time evading the blame.

…

The pub Sherlock mentioned was a block away, and about half full. John spotted Sherlock in a corner, on banquette seating with a high upholstered back. The navy mac covered up his gorgeous suit, and the cap and glasses were back in place, making him look more like Frank than Sherlock. People nearby seemed to be taking no notice of him.

John was about to sit on the stool across from him, but Sherlock made a frustrated sound. "Sit over here."

Raising his eyebrows slightly, John moved to sit beside Sherlock. Immediately, his leg pressed against his.

"I think we should lay low here for a little, in case the police are walking around the area. I've already ordered a drink and some food." Sherlock said softly, turning to speak right in John's ear.

Maybe he was playing up the boyfriend role in this public setting, but he couldn't help reacting to the man's closeness. The light touches, his sexy voice, the way he had looked tonight…

Turning his head slightly, he met Sherlock's glance, and then his eyes went to those full lips. So close… When he looked back up, Sherlock's eyes seemed considerably warmer.

"Get up. I need to go to the loo." Sherlock said, shifting away.

"What?" John was jarred out of the sensual haze he had been falling under. "Oh." He scooted off the seat, letting Sherlock get out.

When he was standing beside John, he grabbed his hand and leaned in close. "Give it a minute and come back to the loo." A second later he was gone.

 _What?!_ Surely he didn't mean what John was thinking of. The loo? Together? Here?

He sunk back down on the seat, trying to get his bearings. They couldn't do this.

But a minute later, he was walking to the back hallway, glad that the staff were busy enough to not notice. It felt so obvious, like there was a spotlight on him, every step of the way.

He opened the door to the loo, quickly stepping in and shutting it behind him. It seemed empty, but he knew it wasn't.

Heart pounding again, but for completely different reasons, John walked slowly forward. There were sinks, urinals, and a couple stalls. One of the doors seemed almost completely closed. He pushed lightly on it.

It wasn't that well lit, but he could see Sherlock standing inside. Without thinking too hard, he entered and locked the door behind him.

Who moved first, it was hard to say. They were just together, hard hungry kisses, hands, grabbing, greedy. Being shoved back against the tiled wall so hard he let out an oomph. Zippers and buttons being undone, hands diving underneath clothing, panting, biting, kissing. Sherlock was like a wildfire, out of control, dangerously beautiful

…

Ten minutes later, John was ordering a lager, trying to keep a straight face as Sherlock smirked.

The server had just set down Sherlock's drink, and a big plate of chips. She walked away shaking her head.

"She totally knows." John chuckled, still feeling a little shocked himself.

Sherlock leaned against his side, his hand sliding along John's thigh. "Well, at least she's thinking that I'm a sexual deviant. I prefer that to people thinking I'm a murderer."

Leaning closer, John planted a kiss near Sherlock's ear. "You've certainly convinced me." The washroom tryst had been exciting, a great distraction. Perhaps it was just the endorphins, but he felt a lot calmer. "Feel free to convince me whenever you want."

Those sexy green eyes were looking over John, and then Sherlock nodded. "It all makes sense. You like danger. I bet you have missed it, since coming back from overseas."

John shook his head in instant denial. The server dropped off his drink, and he took a sip as he watched Sherlock eating his chips.

But sitting there beside Sherlock, feeling his thigh pressing against his again, John felt that familiar zing of excitement. It was frequent around Sherlock, really, never knowing what he might do next, still bending the rules and taking risks.

Sherlock was constantly doing that. Pushing John a little beyond his comfort zone, challenging him in a way most people didn't. Always giving him the choice to say no. But right from the start, John had said Yes, Yes, Yes. Yes, to casual sex when they hardly knew each other. Yes, to trying Sherlock's concoctions. Yes, to Sherlock staying with him now.

Pushing the plate closer to John, Sherlock leaned in closer. "Eat some. You need to keep your energy up."

John scoffed a little. That was usually his line.

Sherlock leaned in even more, his lips touching John's ear. "What we did earlier was just the warm up. I'm going to take you apart when we get home." His hand was back on John's thigh, sliding along his inseam.

The words started the slow burn again. John noticed that Sherlock was against his right side, like he had been on Saturday night, leaving their dominant hands to eat the chips and sip from their glasses. John's right hand went to Sherlock's knee, feeling the smooth, expensive fabric.

…

It was only hours later when John came back to bed with two big glasses of water that he remembered something. "I totally forgot to ask you how it went with Felicity and Oscar. Did you find out anything useful?"

Sherlock took a long sip, setting the half empty glass on the bedside table. He grinned widely at John.

"You did! And you kept it to yourself all night! You cock!" John poked him a few times, exasperated at the berk.

His answering grin was slow and wicked. "I was a little distracted. You looked very good at the gallery, in your suit. Reminded me of the day of the memorial service, when I came out and saw you fighting with someone in the parking lot. I couldn't resist taking you back to my place."

"Oh really…" John chuckled at the thought. But then again, Sherlock had mentioned that he knew John was Jack from PlayLand before that. "How did you know, during the autopsy, that I was…" He had been wondering about that for a while.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Even though you modified your voice to disguise it, it only changed the pitch and the speed. Your word choices, small sounds that you make without even realizing it, those all stayed the same."

So, things only Sherlock would notice. John sighed. "Fine. What did you find out tonight?"

"Oscar recognized the man in our picture."

…

A/N: Another Cliff-hanger? Really? ;)

-NOTES: Here's a bunch of notes on stuff you can totally skip! Mostly just background info about the gallery and the Greek myths in the artwork.

-Tantalus painting: 'Tantalus' by Giambattista Langetti (1625-1676). He was an Italian late-Baroque painter, with a style similar to Caravaggio (1571-1610). The word 'tantalize' comes from his name.

-St. Pancras Old Church: Old St Pancras has an information panel posted outside that states it is "…one of Europe's most ancient sites of Christian worship, possibly dating back to the early 4th century". It is said the last bell that tolled for the Mass in England was at St Pancras. Among the Catholics buried in the churchyard was Johann Christian Bach, Johann Sebastian's youngest son, but his name was unfortunately misspelled in the burial register as John Cristian Back.

-The Crypt: St. Pancras New Church opened in 1822, and the crypt was designed and used for coffin burials until 1854, when the crypts of all London churches were closed for burials. It was meant for 2000 coffins, and is still the final home of 557 people. In both World Wars the Crypt was used as an air raid shelter. From their website: "In 2002 the Crypt at St Pancras Church became a gallery space where the imagination, thoughts and emotions of 21st century artists are shared with visitors from around the world. Now this popular venue hosts a year-round programme of art exhibitions. As a church we are pleased to include art that provokes and questions, as well as art designed for contemplation, because all form an important part of our common humanity. Throughout history the Church has encouraged and supported the arts and artists. Long may this continue."

-Helen of Troy: More Greek mythology… Helen was said to be the most beautiful woman in the world, and was married to King Menelaus of Sparta. She eloped/was abducted by Prince Paris of Troy, resulting in the Trojan War when the Greeks set out to reclaim her and bring her back to Sparta. The phrase 'the face that launched a thousand ships' comes from this myth.

-Prince Paris: He got mixed up in judging an impromptu beauty contest between the goddesses Athena, Hera and Aphrodite. They offered him bribes when he couldn't decide who was the most beautiful goddess, with Aphrodite offering the love of the most beautiful woman on Earth, Helen of Sparta, if he chose her. She had neglected to mention Helen was already married, so Paris had to raid King Menelaus' house to abduct Helen. Some accounts say she fell in love with him, and left willingly.

-Cassandra: She was worshipping at the temple of Apollo, and he attempted to seduce her by giving her the gift of prophecy. When she refused to sleep with him, he cursed the gift by making it so no one would ever believe her prophecies. She was seen as a liar and a madwoman by her family and the Trojan people. The only prophecy of her's that was believed was that Prince Paris was her abandoned brother, resulting in his reunion with her family. She foretold of the abduction of Helen and the Trojan War, and warned him not to go to Sparta. She was ignored. She later warned everyone about the Trojan Horse, but wasn't believed, and even tried to destroy it herself, but was stopped.

After the fall of Troy, she sought shelter in a temple of Athena, but was abducted and brutally raped by Ajax the Lesser. Athena was furious at the Greeks' failure to punish Ajax for these horrible actions in her own temple, and had Poseidon destroy most of the Greek fleet of ships with horrible storms as they sailed back from Troy, and killed Ajax herself in a terrible way.

-Trojan Horse: After a fruitless 10-year siege, the Greeks made a huge wooden horse, and hid a select force of men inside. The Greeks pretended to sail away, and the Trojans pulled the wooden horse into their walled city as a victory trophy. That night, the Greek force crept out of the horse and opened the gates for the rest of the Greek army to enter, and destroy the city, ending the war.

-Somerstown Coffee House – "No, no, no, it's NOT just a coffee house (jeeeez, the amount of times we have to tell people). Located just around the corner from Euston, we're home to travellers from across the globe alongside a bundle of locals, city slickers and the rest."


	11. Chapter 11

"Oscar recognized the man in our picture."

The words seemed to hang in mid air for a minute or two, until their full meaning hit John.

"He knows the attacker? Who is he?" John rolled Sherlock onto his back, scrambling over him to pin him down. The berk has kept this to himself all night. John wasn't going to let him up until he heard everything.

Sherlock was chuckling, clearly the information was what had put him in such a good mood since they left the gallery. He got so excited over leads, it was infectious. His green eyes seemed to glow, his lips pulling into a small pleased smile.

"Well, he didn't know his name, but I could tell right away he recognized him. He zoomed up the pictures, looking at them all closely while I talked with Felicity." Sherlock said, looking quite proud of himself. The risk of going to the gallery had been worth it.

John let out a frustrated huff. "Sherlock! Fucking tell me what he said already!"

"What will you give me to tell you?" Sherlock still prevaricated.

Rolling his eyes, John tried to keep calm. "You're going the right way for a smart bottom."

The comment made Sherlock chuckle, but John couldn't miss the spark of interest in his eyes as well. "Oh really?"

Sherlock, when in a good mood, was simply irresistible. John loved it when he was playful like this. So fucking sexy.

He leaned down, kissing the man until he was pulling against John's restraining hands. Stopping only to pull back a little, John gave Sherlock an exasperated look. "What?"

The berk pouted a little. "Let go of my wrists. I want to touch you."

"Tell me what Oscar said, and I will." John shot back with a smile.

Sherlock's eyes went to John's mouth, groaning. "Blackmail."

"Bargaining." John corrected.

With a curt nod, Sherlock met his gaze. "It took him a while to place him, but he's pretty sure the guy is a cousin of Paolo's. Someone he had met in passing a time or two, years ago. Can't remember his name though."

John gave him a quick kiss, releasing him to roll over on his back, staring at the ceiling as he thought about it. A cousin. Paolo was 34 when he died. From the fight, John's impression was that the attacker's age was around the same or slightly younger. Mid-twenties to low-thirties. His face and colouring were similar to Paolo's, likely Italian as well, so it fit that they could be related. He hadn't spoken, so John didn't know if he had an accent. Paolo had been born in England so he didn't, but his mother still had a light one.

"Well, there's a 50/50 chance his last name is Baresi as well, then." John sighed. "How many men from 25-35 years old have that surname in the UK? In London?"

Sherlock nodded. "It's a place to start. Felicity also mentioned that they had a traditional funeral for Paolo at the Italian church, St. Peter's, the day before the memorial service. That's the one his extended family and the Italian community went to."

"Traditional funeral? Like open casket after he had an autopsy? Is that possible?" John mused aloud.

Sherlock shrugged. "But it's possible this cousin could have travelled to come to the funeral and still been around the next day to attack you."

John nodded. "I can't remember his clothes that clearly. Not a suit, and not something really casual either, like jeans or athletic wear. I think he was in dress trousers and a button up shirt. He could have worn it to the memorial service."

Sherlock agreed. "Well, I have a solid lead, at least. I can show the picture at the building, see if the security staff remember him at the memorial. Go to that church, see if the minister or staff know him."

"Could your brother access official records? Search election rolls or passports?" John was just throwing out ideas, getting excited, but also feeling a bit overwhelmed at the possibilities.

Sherlock didn't seem to latch on to that idea. "Well, I'll check out the most likely things first, and enlarge the search if I need to. By his attack, I would say he knew Paolo well. Was close enough that his death made him angry. That says he probably lived in London, like Paolo did. Not a distant cousin who came here just for the funeral. Besides, most people can't afford to travel that far anymore."

"And Felicity didn't recognize him? Wouldn't she know his local family pretty well?" John thought back on what he knew about their relationship from being in media. They were both well known celebrities, beautiful people who enjoyed their fame.

Sherlock scooted upwards, propping a pillow against his lower back as he leaned against the headboard. "I don't think she was that close with his family. Why else would she hold the memorial service in addition to the funeral? It had a handful of his family members, but was mostly people from the sports community, friends, associates like us."

"And did you notice that his mother never called her by name when I spoke with her? Just referred to her as 'his fiancee'." John added. "I know they weren't a couple when he had his first surgery with me, but were for the second. So, they've only been together a few years."

"It will be easy enough to research that." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, lost in thought.

John settled down on the bed, getting sleepy. He had worked all day, had the excitement at the gallery, and then all this sex with Sherlock. He was exhausted and had to be at the office bright and early tomorrow. "Well, I could show his mother the picture. She seemed to trust me."

"How would you explain having the picture? Knowing it's his cousin? She would likely get suspicious and say nothing." Sherlock said. "It's a possibility, but I'll try some other things first."

John nodded. "Well, be careful tomorrow. Your face has been in the news more lately, so you have a higher chance of being recognized." He kissed Sherlock and settled back under the covers.

Sherlock stayed sitting up against the headboard, clearly not sleepy yet. His hand cupped John's shoulder over the sheet, making small soothing strokes as he fell asleep.

...

John knocked on the door again, but there was still no response. He shrugged, turning back to Sherlock. "I don't think she is home. We can try again tomorrow."

Sherlock made an irritated sound as they turned to walk back to the tube.

Grabbing his hand, John gave it a little squeeze. "I know this is frustrating. We will figure this out."

Although he nodded in response, Sherlock's posture showed how discouraged he was. It was such a change from how pumped up he had been last night, excited about this strong lead. But he had run around London all day, showing the picture, and was no closer to getting the cousin's name.

John had met him after work to talk to Paolo's mother, hoping for better success there. But she wasn't home. Another dead end, for now.

"Is there anywhere else we should try tonight?" John asked softly, just wanting to support Sherlock any way he could.

Wearily, Sherlock shook his head.

They got onto the tube. It was early evening, rush hour over, so they found seats together. As the train swayed, John wrapped his arm over Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him against his side. The tired, discouraged man slumped against John.

"Look, we will go home, eat some dinner and look over everything we know. We will find something if we look hard enough." John said, stroking Sherlock's leg.

Sitting so close to John, he barely had to move to talk softly into his ear. "My time is up. We agreed that I should talk to the cops tomorrow."

Fear shot through John at those words, and he shook his head. "That was before we had this lead. I think you need one more day, checking back with people you couldn't reach today. I can probably even cut out of work earlier tomorrow, so we can try seeing Paolo's mom again."

Sherlock seemed to agree, but didn't seem that enthused about it.

Back at the flat, John checked the fridge and there was hardly anything in it. Looking over at Sherlock, he had an idea. "I think you need a rest from thinking about the case, just for a few hours. Give it a break, and when you come back to it, you'll see it with fresher eyes."

"Whatever." Sherlock pulled off his coat, stretching. He seemed worn out.

Grabbing his hand, John pulled him out into the hallway and to the stairs. But instead of heading down like they normally did, he tugged him up.

It was still light out, as they emerged on the roof. John grinned a little, looking over at Sherlock, seeing the way he looked around.

"You were asking the other night about why I live here. This is a big reason." John squeezed his hand, tugging him along.

The roof was mostly covered with greenery, with narrow paths dividing the area into various plots. A couple neighbours waved at them in passing, before going back to their work.

Grabbing a bucket, some tools and gloves, John headed over to a plot far away from everyone else. He passed Sherlock a pair of the gardening gloves. "Put these on."

Sherlock did as he asked, and they were soon sitting on the edge of the raised bed.

John passed him a trowel. "So, we are going to weed now. Pull out anything that isn't lettuce and chuck it into the pail." He demonstrated what to do, and got to work. After a minute or so, he saw Sherlock copying his motions, working slower, but doing it right.

The lettuce was growing well, and John gently pushed the leaves out of the way to clear the weeds.

Sherlock looked around almost as much as he worked, clearly curious and distracted by everything. "So all this, all these plants, are edible?"

John chuckled. He had been just as inexperienced when he had come back from Afghanistan. Janine had been the one who first had him working in gardens, showing him everything. "Yup. Potatoes, peas, carrots, radish, cucumbers. Almost any vegetable we can grow. Anything good for this climate." Luckily London had a long growing season.

"And you just take what you want?"

The questions were good. Just the distraction John had hoped Sherlock would get from being up here. There was something naturally restful about working with the garden, seeing results right away. The satisfaction of the cleared plot. The quiet. Feeling the sun on your skin, the light breeze in your hair, the smell of moist soil.

The view was great as well. The building was six stories tall, and most buildings for miles and miles were similar height, some slightly shorter or taller. Occasional taller buildings and church spires poked higher on the vista. Many of the other building had green roofs like this one, and trees surrounded most buildings. Large parks also broke up the cityscape, full of trees and green grass.

John chucked some more weeds into the bucket. "Everyone who lives here gets a portion. What is ready for harvest and doesn't get eaten by us gets sold at a weekly farmer's market nearby."

They talked on as they worked, and pretty soon the plot was done and the bucket full. John led Sherlock over to the compost pile to empty it, and started gathering vegetables from the various plots.

"How do you know how much is OK to take?" Sherlock asked, watching as John got some green onions, adding them to his pail.

John shrugged. "I'm generally up here every other day, so I take what I'll use in the next couple days. Basically we get a bucket of food for each half hour of work."

Sherlock seemed about to launch into about a dozen more questions, but John held up his hand. "Hold on a sec..."

He waved to a tall man walking nearby, wearing a wide brimmed hat and loose jeans over his lanky frame.

"Bill, I don't think you met my boyfriend at the dinner the other night. Frank, this is our building's resident farmer." John completed the introductions, looking between the two men.

Sherlock's sharp eyes flicked over the man, and he nodded knowingly. "Oh, you are the one who John borrowed clothes from for me."

Bill smiled back warmly. "Oh right. Nice to meet you."

"Say, do you have any dinner plans? Frank hasn't been on a green roof before and he has more questions than I have answers." John asked.

The other man looked down at his dirty work clothes and hands. "I'm hardly tidy enough to go out anywhere, John."

John patted his arm. "Oh, I just meant at my flat. What you are wearing is fine. Just a casual supper."

Bill agreed, and said he would come down in fifteen minutes. John finished grabbing the food he needed and headed down with Sherlock.

In the flat, John put the veggies in the kitchen. By the time he came out, Sherlock had shucked off his bulky jumper, his cap and glasses.

"Um, you better wear the glasses and the cap. I doubt Bill follows the news that closely, but we don't want him to place you." John said, tilting his head to the side a little.

Sherlock picked up the hat with a huff. "Who wears a cap indoors? Won't that be strange?"

John went to his closet, digging around, and pulled out a thin knit beanie in dark olive green. "How about this instead?"

Trying it on, it covered Sherlock's hair quite well, and with the glasses, altered his appearance enough.

Washing their hands, they started chopping up the vegetables, working better together since them had done it before. By the time Bill knocked on the door, most of the prep was done.

Getting everyone a beer, John pulled up a kitchen chair and they all settled in the living room.

"So, Bill, Frank is from Cambridge and hasn't been around buildings like this very much. He keeps asking me about things, and I thought you would be great at explaining how it all works." John relaxed back in his chair.

Bill nodded slightly slowly. "Well, in the past, what, ten or fifteen years, the government has given property taxes incentives for buildings that are more community focussed or sustainable. The more programs we get involved in, the lower the taxes."

Sherlock perked up. "Really? What types of programs?"

"Well, the building already had solar panels and rainwater collection before I came. I was hired on when they put in the green roof." Bill explained.

"Hired as what?"

Bill sipped his drink. "I lost my job as a lorry trucker, and was out of work for a while. That whole industry died. They government offered free retraining in a few areas, and I took urban farming. I live here rent free, get a share of the produce, plus a small salary, for running the gardens."

"Gardens?"

"The roof, the fruit trees around the building, the greenhouse. Also manage the rainwater collection, so we don't use city water. There are tanks on the roof to water the gardens and for the building's use. Grey water is reused by the toilets before it goes to the sewers." Bill crossed his long legs, sipping his beer.

John got up. "I'm going to finish making dinner while you two talk." Once in the kitchen, he boiled water for some pasta, made a simple sauce, and sautéed the vegetables. He could hear Sherlock asking lots of questions, and felt relieved that he was distracted from the case for a little while. The break would do him good.

By the time he passed them each a large bowl of pasta, the two men were chatting easily, joking around. John brought out another round of beer and dug into his own meal. The peanut sauce had turned out a little spicier than he intended, but was still good.

"OK, I get why the government was giving all these incentives to get people to move to buildings with these modifications. Use less energy, less water, the whole victory garden thing." Sherlock took a large bite of pasta, chewing as he thought. "But why the incentives for the types of tenants?"

John decided to answer that, give Bill a break to eat. "A lot of people had a hard time being able to afford food, or get the care they needed. Like seniors whose families live far away and can't afford to travel much. This building has the seniors' apartments on the first floor and the staff to assist them get paid like Bill. Same with the staff who run the small daycare on the second floor. We also have about a quarter of the flats for low income families and singles."

"Fuck, this whole thing is a commune. I'm surprised you didn't break into a big round of 'Kum Ba Ya' at that dinner last weekend." Sherlock teased, finishing off his meal and setting the empty bowl on the coffee table.

Bill chuckled. "I never pictured that I would do work like this. But it's great! I don't even have to commute."

"Want a tour?" John asked, now that everyone was done. It would be good to move around a bit after eating.

Sherlock agreed, and they walked down the stairs. They stopped in the second floor, Bill showing Sherlock the common room central area that served as a daycare. There were small flats around the parameter, with lots of kid sized furniture in the common room. Shelves held containers full of toys and craft supplies. A kitchenette on one side was tidy, it's cupboards and fridge full of healthy food for the kids.

On the main floor, they went into the common room were the dinner had been held. It was back to looking normal, the tables stocked with tools and sewing machines.

"During the day, the seniors like working in the greenhouse, and working on projects in here together." Bill explained. "At night, other people in the building work here too."

"Who owns all this stuff?" Sherlock picked up a hammer from a tool box.

John shrugged. "The building. It's bought from the rent, or from money we get from the farmers market. We can all use this stuff, share it."

They went outside into the garden, the enclosed space ringed with fruit trees. The spring blooms were gone now, and tiny fruit was growing on them all. The greenhouse was full of harder to grow plants, that needed a more protected climate than the roof.

Sherlock was looking around the small greenhouse, quite interested. "Have you ever thought about doing aquaponics?"

Before John knew it, Bill and Sherlock were deeply discussing pH levels and ideal fish breeds. He just shook his head at it all. "I'm going to head up. Stay and talk."

Sherlock grabbed his hand before he could slip away, pulling him closer to give him a light kiss. It fit the boyfriends role they were portraying, but still left John's lips tingling from the contact.

As he walked up the stairs to the flat, he couldn't help picturing Sherlock living here. He seemed so interested in everything, and fit in surprisingly well with the other tenants.

A week ago, John never would have thought their relationship would ever be like this. They seemed so much different, connecting only in a physical way. But they had been living together several days now, and they got on well most of the time.

John tidied up the flat, feeling a bit odd at being there without Sherlock. It felt so empty and quiet without his enigmatic presence. He ended up putting on some music, just to feel more normal.

Sitting down, he just shook his head at the thoughts running through his head. Either they cleared Sherlock's name or he might be charged with murder, or involuntary manslaughter, depending how much evidence the police had on him. A case from his childhood seemed familiar, and he ended up pulling out his tablet to do research.

If Sherlock was charged, he would have a huge legal battle on his hands. Would he be able to get a good lawyer, and poke enough reasonable doubt that Sherlock's drugs caused Paolo's death? John knew Sherlock had enough money to hire the best, have the best chance possible, but he could still end up in jail.

If they could clear his name, then what? Sherlock just goes back to his flat and they never see each other again? Go back to casual sex a couple tunes a week? Become boyfriends for real? Ask Sherlock to stay?

And if he was charged, could John stand at his side, as a friend or a boyfriend? Risking his own reputation? Would patients see him differently if he was publicly linked to Sherlock? Even if he wasn't charged, people knew him as a DADT league chemist, and that was still controversial. Look at how Dr. Park had argued with Sherlock at the hospital the day they had met. Even sweet Molly Hooper had called him Dr. Frankenstein.

Sherlock couldn't live in disguise much longer. It was bound to come out sooner or later. If John was going to be a part of Sherlock's life outside of the bedroom, he had to be at peace with his work. It was such a big part of Sherlock's life.

The door opened, and Sherlock entered. He pulled off the beanie and glasses once the door was closed, ruffling his curls quickly with both hands.

His green eyes scanned over John, and his shoulders dropped a little. Walking over to where John was reclining, he dropped a quick kiss on his lips as a way to say hello, and then slipped to the floor. He leaned against John's chair, resting his arms against his bent knees. "You are thinking about the case, aren't you? I confess it was nice to think about something else for a while."

The quick kisses Sherlock had given John so naturally made him confident to reach out to play with Sherlock's hair. Running his hands through the curls in a soothing gesture, but still enjoying touching him this way. "Sometimes a step back. A step away, gives you a fresh perspective. Let's look over everything we know."

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes briefly as he collected his thoughts. "Paolo Eduardo Baresi, Italian British, 34, professional athlete. Born and raised in the UK with immigrant parents. Excelled in sport at a young age, athletic scholarship for uni. First professional job in Milan, but moved back to London for the last eight years. Relatively good health, hospitalized only for surgeries with you on his Achilles' tendon and knee. Has been my client for three years. Meet his fiancée two years ago."

John agreed with everything Sherlock said. "He had minor signs of anemia a when younger, but not later on."

"And likely related was your attacker after the memorial service. Oscar claims he could be a cousin, but one day of following this lead has come up short." Sherlock added, tapping his fingers against his knee in thought.

"Possible causes of death. Autopsy said heart attack, showed enlarged heart and other organs, elevated hematocrit. Non-fatal damage to his liver from steroid use." John mused, thinking back.

Sherlock nodded. "It could have been due to a natural condition, or interference by Paolo himself, or someone else. Or a combination of factors."

John's eyebrows rose. "You think it could be suicide?"

"I'm not eliminating any possibilities yet." Sherlock snapped, and then gave John an apologetic look. "Sorry. Let's throw out any possible ideas, and then we can narrow them down afterwards."

"Paolo was reaching the end of his career, and didn't seem to wanting to retire. His mother and I encouraged him to consider it, but he was resistant. Was this his own sense of pride, pushing himself to stay in the game? Or outside pressures?" John said, thinking of motives.

"I don't think his mother was pushing him. She seemed proud of him, but didn't value his financial success that much. Seemed to care more about his health." Sherlock said.

John nodded. "But I got the feeling she doesn't like Felicity. She only referred to her as 'his fiancée', not by name."

Sherlock was quiet a moment, considering this. "Could it be because Felicity isn't Italian? Mom wanted Paolo stick to someone in their community or religion?"

"Hmmm, perhaps. I don't get the feeling Greta Baresi is that much of a traditionalist. I think she wanted her son happy and healthy." John had liked the older woman, found her forthright and caring when he had seen her at the hospital and when they went to her house.

"Felicity. A model in a world with much less consumer buying power than in the past. She is known, but I doubt she is paid that well." Sherlock opined.

John nodded. "She cares a lot about high end fashion. I'm oblivious to most of that and even I can tell she wears designer clothing." The fashion industry has shrunk significantly over the past couple decades, catering to the upper crust mostly.

"His mother said they were living in a fancy flat. It sounds like that all happened when she came along." Sherlock added.

It was interesting, bouncing ideas off each other like this. Sherlock had better scientific knowledge in most areas, but John understood people better. "I'm still suspicious about the relationship between Felicity and Oscar. Mike said Oscar and Paolo were like brothers, but I sense chemistry between them. That dress she wore to the gallery was a date dress."

"She could just be showing the world that she is out of mourning and wanting to move on." Sherlock shrugged.

John nodded, thinking beyond the people they discussed. "Paolo was a public person, so there could have been someone wanting to do him harm over some imagined slight. Or someone who doesn't like the DADT league, wants a scapegoat."

Sherlock shook his head. "I doubt someone like that would be able to get close enough to administer a drug to kill him. It would have to be someone in his inner circle, someone he knew and trusted."

"You talked with his teammates and we toured the stadium. Nothing really came out of that except mentioning he was sick from the lab meat a couple days before." John thought hard on other possibilities. "His mother mentioned that he was getting treatments from other people, besides you. Did you ask Felicity and Oscar about that?"

Sherlock shifted, stretching out his long legs in front of his body. "I was mostly focussed on the pictures, and just started to ask that when you signalled to me." He made a frustrated noise.

John rubbed Sherlock's shoulder to soothe him, to know he wasn't alone in this. "Finding the cousin and finding the other people giving treatments seem to be the missing pieces stil."

The tension seemed to be ratcheting up in Sherlock. John could feel it in his shoulders.

"I have looked and looked. I hardly know where else to go." Sherlock sighed. He sounded exhausted, with good reason.

"Come up here." John said softly. He urged Sherlock onto the lounger meant for one. Both shifted to make room, and then fit together when they laid on their sides, facing each other. "It's been five days of investigating, and we have found out so much. Talked to so many people. Think of all the possibilities we have eliminated. That's progress too."

His words seemed to help, and he could feel Sherlock relaxing into him a little. "Yeah, I suppose."

"We are narrowing it down, almost there. One little thing will pop up somewhere, and it will just fit into place like a jigsaw puzzle. It will make everything makes sense." John rubbed his back soothingly.

"I hope so." Sherlock said softly. He sounded tired, and a bit discouraged still.

John didn't know what else to say. They knew the case, and had nothing that concrete to clear Sherlock. He knew the man was worried about his possible future. Either leaving the country and everything he had known, or staying and facing a very public legal battle that could ruin his career, his life here, even if he wasn't ultimately convicted.

After about twenty minutes, Sherlock got up and went to the bathroom. After that, he headed towards the bedroom.

John watched him go, knowing he needed the rest after a long day of seemingly futile work. He was still thinking about the case, sifting his way back through everything, wracking his brain for any possible unturned stone. It was a couple hours before he joined Sherlock under the covers, spooning him tightly, his warmth helping John finally fall asleep.

...

-A/N: Some progress...can't make things too easy for the boys... There will be more 'action' next chapter. Thanks for continuing to read this story. I think there will be about 15 chapters in total.

-Travel: Higher energy costs mean that it is more expensive to travel in this future. Europe already has an excellent train system, but it will be used a lot for freight, since shipping by road/air uses more energy. That would drive up passenger fares on trains. Most people can't afford to travel as far.

-Green Roof: It is simply a roof covered with plants and vegetation. It can be 'extensive', just a thin layer of topsoil planted with a mix of low-growing, drought-resistant species like succulents, grasses, and herbs, and be quite low maintenance. Or it can be more 'intensive', with a thicker soil layer to support larger plants and more structural considerations to handle the weight load on the building.

There are many benefits. Insulation to keep the building warmer in the winter and cooler in the summer, so lower energy costs. Plants and soil keep the sun from damaging the roof, making it last twice as long. They also absorb the rain, reducing the runoff and the risk of flooding during downpours. Plants also take in carbon dioxide and give off oxygen, making air quality better, reducing greenhouse gases. In this building, the roof is planted with vegetables, giving food to its tenants.

Green roofs examples: The Pentagon (180,000 square feet/ 17,000 m2), Emporia shopping mall (27,000 square meters, the size of four soccer fields) in Sweden, and the Kanes salad factory in Evesham, UK, with 90 species of wildflower and natural grasses.

-Urban/Rural Changes: Farmers had a hard time affording the increasing energy costs of running their machinery, and had to use physical labour more. They started building simple cabins on the outskirts of their land, offering free board and a share of the crops to people who would work for them. The increasing prices in the late 2020s scared people a lot. Businesses closed, jobs were cut back or eliminated, and food costs rose. So many people decided to leave the cities to move onto farms, knowing they had a secure food source and roof over their heads.

-London Changes: Seeing people unemployed and leaving in great numbers, the city reviewed what would be sustainable in the long run and gave property tax breaks to encourage people to adopt these new ways of living. Low rise buildings with small flats for many people close to tube stations were the most energy efficient.

-Government Retraining: As goods became more expensive, people bought less, made do with what they had, recycled, bought used goods, grew their own food, and bought locally produced things more. Many shops went out of business, and truck drivers lost their jobs since less goods were being shipped long distances. The government offered training programs for unemployed people to learn skills like installing solar panels, green roofs, and water-wise systems. Training people to help others be able to afford living in the city, providing essential services. Urban farming techniques is what Bill trained in, getting the best yield from a green roof, greenhouse and garden, spending as little as possible on expensive pesticides or fertilizer.

-Rainwater Collection: Water or ice covers about 80% of the world, yet only 1% of the world's water is suitable for human needs, 97% is salt water in the ocean and 2% is ice. In the UK, people currently use 150 litres/day of water each, with around 20% of that cold water from faucets for drinking and other uses. The other 80% is for toilets, laundry, showers, watering the garden, etc.

Instead of treating all the water to be potable (drinkable), the government in the future gives tax incentives to encourage people install rainwater and greywater systems. Rainwater is collected in cisterns and a small amount is filtered to be safe for consumption. The rest is used for in washing machines and showers, with the greywater from that being used in the toilets or for the garden.

Rainwater harvesting can help reduce greenhouse gas emissions associated with treating and pumping water from a centrally located municipal plant, and help reduce stormwater runoff. It is less energy-intensive than other alternate sources of water such as desalination and water recycling. It's also free of minerals, thus reducing scale buildup in pipes, and it is sodium-free, which can be good for persons on low-sodium diets if used for drinking.

-Population Diversity: In order to help build strong communities and encourage people to work close to where they live, the government offered tax incentives to buildings that have certain types of tenants and services.

John's building has the first floor designed for seniors needing assisted living. They have small flats with no kitchen. Aides prepare their meals in the common room kitchen, helping them with eating. The rest of the day, most of the seniors stay in the common room to use the tools to work on projects, working in the greenhouse and garden, or just relaxing together.

The second floor common room is set up for a daycare. Families with small children live on that floor and on the third. The upper floors are a mix of families and single people. The common rooms are used by everyone in the evenings and on weekends.

Other buildings like John's cater to other special needs communities, like drug addicts who come out of rehab needing a stable place to live and reestablish their lives, people with physical or mental disabilities, and new immigrants. Workers who support the tenants with special needs are paid like Bill, with free rent in the building and a small salary.

-Kum ba yah ("Come by Here") is a spiritual song first recorded in the 1920s. It became a standard campfire song in scouting and summer camps and enjoyed broader popularity during the folk revival of the 1950s and 1960s.

-Sharing economy: We already have carsharing like car2go in over 1000 cities worldwide, and this trend will grow. Why own something that you won't use much? John's building has well stocked common rooms for things the tenants can share the cost of instead of buying individually. Toys and games for the kids, tools, craft supplies. They don't need to have large flats of their own, since they don't own as much 'stuff' individually.

I was obviously thinking about this building too much. They could even have an app for the building with their own credit system. You would earn credits by doing work for the building, like work in the gardens, cleaning, or working at the farmers market selling extra produce. You could then 'spend' the credits by getting use of the buildings tools for your own use, like sewing a dress to sell. You could also buy services from other tenants, like paying a teenager in the building to babysit. Perhaps credits could be redeemed for rent reductions or for cash too. Tenants could get on the app to post service or goods they need or could provide. Another way to keep their costs down and build a strong community.

-Aquaponics: Simply put, you have a large tank of fish, they poop in the water, and you use this nitrogen rich water to help fertilize plants. They can be fish you to raise to eat (like tilapia) or 'pet' fish (like koi).

-Rich People: In this future, the divide between the 'haves' and 'have-nots' is even bigger. There are still the extremely rich people in society, living lifestyles not much affected by the changes. The market for luxury and designer goods is smaller, but it is still there. Felicity is a model for designer fashion, cosmetics and other similar products catering to that demographic.

-Michael Jackson (1958-2009): John was just 8 years old when he died, but would have heard all the news stories in the years that followed. After only a few weeks with a new personal physician, Jackson died of a massive overdose of the general anesthetic, Propofol. It is normally given in a hospital or clinical setting, with close monitoring, and is not indicated or approved as a sleep aid. Conrad Murray said he tried treating Jackson with other drugs, and claimed he only administered the propofol after Jackson insisted. Murray was convicted of involuntary manslaughter in 2011 and served two years of a four year sentence, his medical license suspended.

-Hair Ruffle: OK, Sherlock fans...hands up if you find Sherlock ruffling his curls damn adorable. Three examples: Sign of Three (when he takes off the guards hat), Empty Hearse (when he crashed through the window, before kissing Molly), and Blind Banker (right before John tells him he has a date with Sara).


	12. Chapter 12

John looked down in satisfaction at the biogenic ligament, now in place in his patient's knee. He remembered when they used to have to harvest one of the patient's tendons for this repair. This was so much better.

The operating theatre door opened slightly, and a nurse wearing a surgical mask poked her head around the edge. "Doctor, there is an urgent message coming in for you."

It was highly unusual for anyone to interrupt a surgery this way. "What is it?"

"It is very short. Just 'Found him.'" The nurse was obviously mystified as to why this message was so urgent, but the man on the phone had been most insistent.

John gave a half chuckle at that, a surge of relief and excitement running through him at those two words. He was glad his face was mostly covered for the surgery, hiding his expression from his co-workers.

"Who is the message from?" John asked, wondering how Sherlock had handled this.

The nurse looked at the note. "The caller wouldn't give his name. He said you would know what this was pertaining to."

John nodded. "Thank you, nurse."

She nodded in acknowledgment and left.

"If you need to go, John, I can finish up here." Dr. Lee offered, her dark eyes giving him a concerned look.

He smiled at her, knowing she couldn't see it from behind his surgerical mask, but it would show in his eyes. "That would be great, Gina. Let's run through the tests and then I'll go."

John performed the Lachman, anterior drawer and pivot shift tests, and felt satisfied that the new ACL ligament was stabilizing the knee motions now. He stepped back, allowing Gina to move into place to close the incisions.

He sped through his normal post-op procedures, and was soon in his street clothes, leaving the hospital.

 **Where are you? -J**

The reply text was quick. Sherlock gave a name of a tube station.

 **Wait for me. I'm on my way. -J**

 **But he is so close. I don't want to miss catching him. -SH**

John ran down the steps of the subway station, thankfully mostly empty this time of day.

 **WAIT. It could be dangerous. You wouldn't let me run after him alone. -J**

The berk better be waiting for him. John hopped onto the train, knowing he would lose the connection once they were out of the station.

As he travelled, John grabbed a granola bar and bottle of water from his messenger bag. It had been a busy day, and he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

When he got to the station, he jumped out of the train, looking around for Sherlock. He wasn't around, so John swore to himself and ran up the steps.

 **I'm here. -J**

If Sherlock had gone ahead on his own, John would kill him. With his bare hands. John waited anxiously for a reply, scanning the street for Sherlock.

 **NW corner. -SH**

Relief spread through John when he looked that way, and saw Sherlock. He crossed the street, jogging to his side.

Sherlock's eyes were practically glowing with excitement. "He's three blocks away. If he's not home, we will need to find a place to wait for him."

John followed as Sherlock turned, walking fast down a side street. "You mean stake him out?"

"I have to get him. This is my last hope." Sherlock said over his shoulder, moving fast, his eyes still scanning the area.

It made sense. Sherlock had pushed things, hiding out for so long. If this didn't pan out, he would have to go to the police himself. Face their questions.

Sherlock stopped in front of a run-down building, checking his phone before putting it back into his pocket. He looked at John, seeing if he was ready.

Leaning in, John gave him a light kiss for luck. "Let's go." His heart was threatening to beat out of his rib cage, but he had never felt more alive. After searching and having so many dead ends, this could finally be an answer to something he had wondered about for weeks.

Who was this man, and why had he attacked John, of all people? Paolo's cousin, someone he had never met. It had never made sense to him.

They entered the apartment building, Sherlock surprisingly picking the lock with apparent ease. There was no one in the hallways, but sounds of people in their flats came through the doors as they passed. Muffled talking, music, regular sounds of life. Cooking smells occasionally. They walked quietly, eyes alert as they made their way to the third floor.

Sherlock stopped near a door, cocking his head to listen. John did as well, and their eyes met when they heard someone moving around inside the flat. John's breath caught when Sherlock knocked on the door. This was it.

It took a couple minutes, heart still thumping, before they heard the deadbolt being unlocked and the door opened. In the doorway stood a dark haired man around thirty, with a sturdy athletic build, around John's height.

It was the attacker. John knew it to his core within a heartbeat. It was confirmed when the man's eyes landed on John, narrowing with recognition. "What are you-"

Sherlock stepped forward aggressively, making the man step back out of reflex, and John followed him into the flat. Sherlock shut the door behind them, using his height to crowd the man. "We'll be asking the questions here, Matteo."

Matteo bristled at that, glaring right back at Sherlock, not intimidated at all. "What do you want?"

"Why did you attack my friend here, after Paolo's memorial service?"

Finally, the question that had plagued John for weeks. He clenched his hands, feeling ready to punch the man again if needed.

"How could you ask that? Don't you know what he did to Paolo?" Matteo gave John a look of pure hatred, pure disgust. "And you call yourself a doctor." He almost looked ready to spit in his face.

"What did he do, Matteo?" Sherlock asked, his voice firm and commanding. Demanding answers.

Matteo glared back at him. "Killed him. Said everything was safe, natural. Promised it wouldn't hurt him."

Sherlock grabbed his shoulder when Matteo seemed about to move away. "Paolo told you John was giving him drugs? A treatment?"

Twisting out of Sherlock's grasp, Matteo stepped back, straightening his shirt with a hard tug. "Paolo was worried he wasn't doing enough. That his play was suffering. And that damn chemist wasn't helping much, even though Paolo paid him a small fortune. His doctor said he would help him."

"Help him? Help him how?" Sherlock stepped into Matteo's space again, cornering him, almost sounding manic with his quick questions.

"Dad...?"

Time seemed to freeze as they all turned, seeing the young boy in pajamas standing with crutches in the hallway leading to the bedrooms. His hair was messy and his skin had an unhealthy pallor.

Matteo pushed past them with a huff, rushing to the boy. "Joe, you shouldn't be out of bed. Come on, let's go..."

"Are those bad men going to hurt you?" Joe asked, his eyes big as he looked up at his father.

Shaking his head, Matteo ushered the boy along. "Of course not. We are just talking. Sorry if we were too loud and woke you up."

The man disappeared into a bedroom, and they could hear him talking to his son, settling him down.

John sunk into the sofa, the surge of adrenaline easing now, making him feel tired. It was a good thing he had eaten something on the tube.

Sherlock paced around the room, obviously thinking hard as he looked around.

Matteo came back a few minutes later, his jaw firmly set. "Look, you two have to go. Now."

Sherlock whirled around, shaking his head. "Let's sit and talk this out. It will only take a few minutes, and then we will go."

Sighing, Matteo nodded and waved Sherlock to sit beside John, taking the chair opposite him.

"You son has been sick a long time."

It wasn't a question, but Matteo nodded, looking exhausted suddenly. "Yes. A few years now. A perfectly healthy kid. But it's been nothing but doctors since then."

"And Paolo was helping pay the bills?"

Matteo nodded. "I don't know what we'll do, now that he's gone." He looked away, blinking rapidly.

Despite everything, John felt his doctor persona taking over. "Why is he on crutches?"

"He is having knee problems." Matteo said, turning back to glare at John. "What, are you going to offer to help him? No thanks. I know what you did to Paolo, and there's no way you are coming near Joe, you incompetent quack."

The insults and total lack of respect were making the anger flare again in John.

"What did he do to Paolo? Please, tell me." Sherlock said, trying a reasonable tone, holding a hand out to keep John from talking. Ready to hold him back, if necessary.

Matteo ran his hand through his hair. "I don't exactly know. Paolo was visiting Joe, and we were complaining about how lousy his treatment had been. He was saying that his drugs weren't doing much anymore either. Said his doctor had some old natural technique he could try. Supposed to work great. No chemicals."

"Did he say anything else? When did he get the treatment?" Sherlock leaned forward.

Matteo shrugged. "I dunno. A few weeks before he died, I guess." He glared again at John. "Ask him. He'll know when."

John shook his head, glaring back. "I hadn't seen your cousin for a year. It wasn't me."

"Sure. Fucking deny it all you want, man, now that he's dead. Cover your tracks." Matteo scoffed.

"If you are so sure he killed Paolo, why haven't you told the police?" Sherlock asked.

John glared now at Sherlock. Did he want Matteo to point the finger his way, just to get off the hook himself?

Matteo got up. "What's the use? I've been dealing with the shit doctors at the hospital for years, registering complaints about their incompetence, and it's gone nowhere. Rich doctors have lawyers and never get punished for anything they do."

"So, you decided to punish John yourself? Beat him up?" Sherlock said, calmly.

Going to the door, Matteo opened it. "I'm not admitting anything. You two are probably wearing wires, trying to get me in trouble. I've talked enough. Get the fuck out."

Grabbing John's hand, Sherlock tugged him out of the flat.

"What the hell are you doing? We need to take him to the police!" John pulled against Sherlock's hand, trying to go back to the door.

"No, John. We don't need him now. He gave us all the answers." Sherlock let go of John's hand and started down the stairs, practically at a gallop.

Reluctantly, John followed him. "Answers? What answers? It was all the mad ranting of a clearly delusional man."

Once outside the building, Sherlock hailed a trishaw. He was looking up something in his phone as John climbed in beside him. He gave an address John didn't recognize to the driver.

"I just hope he is still in his office when we get there." Sherlock murmured, checking the time on his mobile.

"Who?!" John grabbed Sherlock's phone from him, needing answers. The screen was back on the lock screen.

Sherlock lowered his brows, glancing over at John. "You really didn't see it?"

John gave a huff, and looked out of the window, watching the passing scenery for a minute to cool down a little before he ended up strangling Sherlock out of pure frustration. "No."

"Joe had been having health problems for a while. Paolo was visiting them, and saw he was having issues with his knee. He mentioned that Matteo should take Joe to see his knee surgeon, the wonderful Dr. John Watson. And then later on, when they were talking about Paolo's performance enhancing treatments, he mentioned that his doctor was going try some old natural techniques on him..." Sherlock explained.

The trishaw stopped, and Sherlock paid the driver. They were in front of an office building, and they walked inside, looking at the directory in the lobby. John read the name there, and it suddenly all clicked.

"Dr. Park is his doctor. Dr. Park was the one doing the procedure on him. Matteo got him confused with me." John said aloud, more to himself than to Sherlock, as they went to the stairs and started up.

Sherlock held open the door to the second floor for him to pass by. "Yup." He popped the 'P' slightly.

Dr. Park's office was empty of patients, as it was almost closing time. Sherlock sauntered right up to the reception desk. "I need to see Dr. Park on an urgent matter."

A man in his early twenties looked up from his tablet, shaking his head. "Sorry, we are about to close for the day. Can I book you an appointment for next week?"

There was a notepad on the man's desk, and Sherlock grabbed it. He wrote a few words and folded it in half. "Do me a favor and deliver this to the doctor. I assure you he will welcome the interruption for this."

With that, Sherlock spun around and sat down on a nearby chair, crossing his legs and pulling out his phone. John shrugged to himself, and settled on the chair next to him.

A couple minutes later, the man was scrambling back to his desk. "Um, sir, please follow me. Dr. Park wants to see you in his office."

Smirking a little at John, Sherlock stood and following the receptionist. John looked around as he brought up the rear, noticing the office was simple and clean, with many framed posters of local sport teams, all from the 'pure' league.

The receptionist knocked on the door lightly, and opened it for them to pass into the office. Dr. Park was sitting behind a large oak desk, wearing a white lab coat over a dress shirt with a striped tie. He was a slim Korean British man in his mid-fifties, with some grey streaking through his black hair.

"Sit down, gentlemen," he said calmly.

Something about his tone caught John's attention though, and he looked closer at the man as he sat down. There was a tightness to his expression, behind the pleasant mask. He was stressed or worried, and it gave weight to Sherlock's theory.

"Your note mentioned Paolo Baresi. We all treated him, in our own fashion. Why are you here, wanting more from me about him?" His dark gaze was challenging, an intelligent man used to getting respect from his patients and co-workers.

Sherlock scoffed. "'In our own fashion?' Since when do you dabble in performance enhancement?"

Dr. Park looked almost like he had been physically slapped. "I don't. That is for cheaters. I don't condone that."

It was the old debate that had broken so many sports into the 'clean' or 'pure' leagues, and the DADT leagues. Over the years, it was harder and harder to have testing that separated the 'cheaters' from the rest. The reality was that most athletes were doing some form of performance enhancing drugs, and tapering off the use leading to big matches so the chemicals would have cleared their systems by then. It just made the athletes better at 'cheating' over time.

"Where is the line for you, Doctor?" Sherlock asked, getting up to perch on the edge of his desk, crowding him, looking down at him. "Specialized training, perfect nutrition, sports psychologists?"

"Those are acceptable, of course." The doctor snapped, shifting in his chair away from Sherlock, and crossing his legs.

Sherlock eased closer, bearing down over the man, his gaze unwavering. "And more extreme things like living at high elevations, or sleeping in a hypobaric tent?"

Even John could see the doctor swallowing out of nerves. Sherlock was definitely on the right track.

"The essence of training is to put the body under stress, and then allow it to heal, becoming stronger and better able to handle the stressor the next time. Lower oxygen levels in the air naturally trigger the body to produce more red blood cells." Dr. Park shot back, trying to glare back at Sherlock, but not able to keep it up.

Leaning in, Sherlock was right in his face. "And is it 'natural' to remove some blood, freeze it, and then reinfuse it back into someone a few weeks later?"

"I didn't use any drugs! His own body replaced the red blood cells we took out!" Dr. Park edged away, and stood on the other side of the desk. He looked visibly paler, and glanced towards the door quickly.

John saw that, and moved to stand in front of his route of escape.

Chuckling, Sherlock sauntered back over to John. "Well, that was a confession, if I've ever heard one. Is Paolo the only athlete you were 'helping' this way? If I look around the office, am I going to find bags of blood from many athletes in the freezer, all conveniently labeled so you don't mix them up?"

Dr. Park sunk back onto his chair, obviously shaken. He looked down, not replying.

"Stay here. Don't let him leave." Sherlock said softly to John. His eyes were gleaming with satisfaction.

Giving a slow grin in response, John nodded. "He wouldn't dare try to get past me." It felt good. John planted his feet shoulder-width apart, standing taller as he stared down at their quarry.

Sherlock left, and John could hear him opening and closing doors, searching the office space quickly. It didn't take long before he returned and flung a handful of hard objects down on Dr. Park's desk.

Picking up one, Sherlock looked closely at the label. "'MM' Hmmm….I wonder whose blood this is." He picked up a different one. "'SS'…you have a few of his. Maybe we should take this all down to the lab for testing."

Dr. Park sighed, and then sat up straighter. "Fine. You know what I did, what I am still doing. Are you going to expose it all? You know it will ruin me."

Sherlock was sorting through the blood packs until he found one with the initials 'PB' in it. He held it up to Dr. Park. "Paolo's? Just tell me. Spare me taking it to the pathologist to test it."

Dr. Park finally nodded.

"You will tell us exactly what you did with Paolo, show us his file and any other records you kept on him. Perhaps, if you cooperate with us, we can ask the police to be lenient on you later." Sherlock put the blood pack into his coat pocket, and sat back down.

...

It was a couple hours later that they left. John felt exhausted but elated. As soon as they exited the building into the twilight, he pushed Sherlock back against the wall, kissing him thoroughly.

"That was incredible, Sherlock. Brilliant." John said breathily, their faces only an inch apart.

"The kissing? Yes, I quite agree. More please..." Sherlock murmured, leaning in to kiss John.

Chuckling, John pulled back. "No, you berk. Matteo. Dr. Park. All of it. You've solved the whole bloody case."

Reaching a hand into his pocket, Sherlock pulled out the blood pack. "Not quite. I suspect our jigsaw has a final piece to put into place." Slipping it back into his pocket, he stepped closer to the street to hail a trishaw. "I'm going to a lab for a few hours. Don't wait up."

And before John could say anything else, Sherlock was on his way. Heading to a lab somewhere, but John had no idea which one. He knew texting Sherlock for more information would be futile. When he was following a lead like this, he would be focused on that, and not checking for messages very often.

With a small shake of his head, John walked to the nearest tube station. The constant feeling of dread that had been so present for most of the last week seemed almost entirely gone now. They had Dr. Park's whole story recorded on their phones. There was no way Sherlock could be blamed for Paola's death now.

But instead of celebrating with John, the berk had rushed off without much explanation to investigate something else. Part of John understood it, admiring Sherlock's unflagging quest for knowledge and his incredibly brilliant mind. But the rest of him felt a bit irked at not being included. They had been together in this from the start, investigating and discussing everything. Being out of the loop at this stage felt like a slap to the face.

What could Sherlock be possibly looking for with that blood? Molly Hunter had run full testing on the blood samples she took from Paolo. What more could he learn from it?

At home, John had a long relaxing shower and ate a sandwich, just wanting something quick and easy. He relaxed afterwards with a big glass of red wine, playing some John Coltrane, letting his thoughts just drift. He could feel himself unwinding, the worries he had been carrying fading.

It was a strange limbo period, waiting for Sherlock to return, wondering what he was doing, thinking about what would be next.

Sherlock had promised to go speak with the police, especially now that he had such concrete evidence on Dr. Park. Would he actually do it? How would the police handle it? Would they still charge someone, just to satisfy public pressure? The story was still in the news, rumors and half-truths everywhere. Conspiracy theories involving Felicity and Oscar. Probes into Sherlock's past.

Without even seeking it, John had heard more about that. He would have preferred to hear it from Sherlock though. His parents were reasonably wealthy, and Sherlock had gone to a private boarding school. He had studied chemistry afterwards at Cambridge, so it was no wonder he felt familiar enough with the place to say Frank was from there. He worked for some of the big pharmaceutical companies, doing research and development. When the DADT league grew and became more mainstream, he had started working on his own, essentially doing his own R&D on professional athletes.

Knowing Sherlock so much better now, it made sense that he preferred working on his own than for a large company. His lightening-quick mind could follow ideas as they came up, unconstrained by red tape and company procedures.

John grew sleepy, and he soon went to bed, missing the warmth and mere presence of Sherlock beside him. It had only been five nights, but it had felt so right.

He had seen how quickly Sherlock could change, from distant and argumentative to affectionate and clingy. Sexy and playful, to completely focused on something else. Grumpy and rude with his brother, to sweet and warm with Mrs. Hudson. Insatiably curious about new things, seeing them with almost childlike wonder and so open to new ideas. Passionate, so alive. So unrestrained.

He had been a mercurial whirlwind that had blown into John's peaceful, quiet life, disrupting everything, and John had loved it all.

...

-A/N: A bit more excitement and some answers in this chapter!

-Boxing Day: I'm posting this on Dec. 26th, and as part of the former British Empire, I have it off for Boxing Day. Most Canadians have no f*cking idea of its origins, but it's nice to have an extra day off after Christmas to travel, or just have turkey-induced naps.

The origins around 1600s Britain suggest it was a day off for the house servants to visit their families. They would serve their boss on Christmas and have the next day off, given a 'Christmas Box' that would contain gifts, bonuses, and perhaps leftover food. By the 1800s, it had evolved into a day people gave a tip to people who did services for them year round, like the postman, garbage man and milkman. In Canada, it has now become our version of the American's Black Friday (the day after their Thanksgiving, the unofficial start of Christmas shopping season, with people practically killing each other in the stores over sales). Our stores here have huge sales, with many people lining up in the wee hours of the morning outside of electronics stores to get a deal on a fancy gadget or two, but it rarely gets violent.

-ACL Knee surgery: It currently takes about 1.5 hours, with harvesting a hamstring or patella tendon from the patient, and drilling holes in the bottom of the femur and the top of the tibia at an angle, and threading the tendon through, and anchoring it into place with bio absorbable screws into both bones. Watching orthopedic surgeries reminds me a little of watching an episode of 'The New Yankee Workshop', with carpentry tools like drills, screws, hammers and planes used to correct the structural elements of the body.


	13. Chapter 13

The Detective Inspector looked at them with his dark, intelligent eyes, his years of experience making his gaze assessing, looking below the surface for the truth.

John shifted on his hard chair, knowing the session was being recorded, feeling tense. Sherlock, sitting beside him, seemed relaxed, but John felt his leg bouncing under the table, occasionally brushing against his.

"So, you have finally made an appearance here. What do you have to say about Paolo Baresi's death?" Lestrade drawled, flicking to a blank screen on his tablet.

John decided to speak first. "Dr. Park here was Paolo's primary care physician. He will tell you what happened in the weeks prior to his death."

Dr. Park swallowed hard, glancing down at the table, clearly nervous. John glared at him, not looking away until the older man's gaze met his and he nodded.

"Um...Baresi was finding it harder to keep up with the younger athletes on his team, and came to me for help. I had been his main doctor before he joined the cheater's league, and I was shocked at how badly he was doing, taking all the drugs _Mr._ Holmes was pushing on him." Dr. Park's contempt for Sherlock was obvious from the dismissive sideways glance he shot him, putting emphasis on the fact that he was a 'Mr.' instead of a doctor.

John leaned forward towards the doctor. "Oh, get off your high horse. Blood doping isn't allowed in your beloved 'pure' league, and is even more dangerous than Sherlock's therapies."

Lestrade held up his hands, making a calm down gestures to the two doctors. "Let's save the name calling for another time. Dr. Watson, can you tell me what Dr. Park did, in layman's language?"

With a sigh, John looked at the DI. "Mr. Holmes was treating Baresi with a drug that imitates a natural hormone to signal the body to increase red blood cell production. The more red blood cells, the more oxygen that gets to the muscles, and that improves athletic performance."

Lestrade nodded, and made some quick notes on his tablet. "Yes, and then..."

"Baresi wanted more improvement, and without consulting with Mr. Holmes, Park used an old technique to give a similar result. Removing a pint or two of blood, waiting a month for Baresi's body to replace the blood, and then adding the old blood back." John deliberately left off the 'Dr.' from Park's name. The man didn't deserve it.

Lestrade seemed to be following along. "So, lots of red blood cells then. Got it."

John nodded. "Park did not check Baresi's hematocrit level, or red blood cell count, before doing that. He brought it up to dangerously high levels." He looked at Park, as if daring him to deny what he had done.

The older man wouldn't meet his gaze.

Lestrade followed their interaction. "When did he inject the old blood?"

"The morning of the day he died. He was already slightly dehydrated from a vomiting spell a couple days before. He played his match, and showed no adverse symptoms. His overworked heart gave out that night, in his sleep. Heart attack." John shook his head, still feeling sad about it.

"Overworked?" Lestrade was making more notes, and arched an eyebrow at John.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Hematocrit levels that high mean that the blood is much thicker than normal. In the '90s, doping Tour de France cyclists used to wake up every couple hours to exercise, keep their blood moving, to prevent heart attacks like this."

"So, you are saying Baresi would still be alive if Dr. Park hadn't injected that blood." Lestrade looked between the three men, all much more knowledgeable in this area than he was.

John nodded firmly. "Yes, definitely."

But at the same time, Sherlock shook his head. "It wasn't entirely Dr. Park's fault."

Whipping his head around, John stared at Sherlock in shock. "What are you doing? You aren't to blame here." They had Park's confession, after chasing leads all week.

Sherlock met John's eyes, a little surprised at John's vehement defence on his behalf. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a paper and passing it to Lestrade. "I meant this."

Lestrade scanned over it, his brow furrowed. "Sorry, but this really isn't my area." He passed it to John, who seemed curious.

John scanned it quickly and flicked a glance at Sherlock, clearly surprised, before reading the pages thoroughly. "Gaucher? Really?"

"Can you explain this to me, Doctor?" Lestrade took a sip of tea, watching the interplay between the three men with interest. Sherlock seemed calm and confident, Park tense, but interested in the papers, and John disbelieving at first, but nodding to himself as he read on.

With a sigh, John laid the papers on the table. "These lab tests show that Baresi had a rare genetic disorder. Extremely rare, and hard to diagnose."

"How rare?" Lestrade was making notes again in his tablet.

John shrugged. "One person in 100,000."

Lestrade nodded, seeming to take that in. "Why is so hard to diagnose it? Couldn't people just do genetic testing for it?"

"It shows symptoms that can vary a lot, and can be misdiagnosed as other conditions. Most doctors would treat the symptoms and not realize it could be this disease." John looked over at Sherlock. "How did you figure it out?"

"Joseph de Luca, Matteo's son. He was showing almost the same symptoms that Paolo had, but at a much younger age." Sherlock replied.

Lestrade held up a hand. "You lost me there. Who are you talking about?"

John turned back to the DI. "I was attacked by a stranger after Paolo's memorial service. We eventually found out it was his cousin, Matteo, and when we confronted him, saw his son Joe. He was about ten years old, on crutches, and obviously very ill."

"He showed the same symptoms as Paolo? What symptoms?" Lestrade probed.

The puzzle pieces were clicking into place, and John could only grin at his brilliant friend, meeting his gaze with admiration probably too obvious for mixed company. "Anemia, weaker bones, enlarged organs..."

"You think Baresi had Gaucher Disease?" Dr. Park scoffed. "He was Catholic!"

John could tell the DI was confused by the comment. "Gaucher Disease is one in 100,000 in the general population, but occurs in one in 600 in certain Jewish populations. Carried by their genes." He looked questioningly at Sherlock. "Why does it run in Baresi's family?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. "There have been studies showing a close genetic similarity between Ashkenazi Jews and Southern Italians. Some postulate that it could stem from intermarriage during Greco-Roman times."

John could tell the Detective Inspector was a bit confused by the medical information. "Paolo had the disease but it wasn't showing many symptoms. When I did his first surgery, he was only showing anemia, which can be caused by many things, and isn't uncommon."

"Especially with people eating less meat these days." Dr. Park added. John glared at him, not needing his help. The other doctor looked away first.

"When I saw him for the second surgery, his anemia was gone, but he did present with an enlarged liver. I knew he was in the DADT league by then, and that is not unusual as a result of the PEDs. Um...Performance Enhancing Drugs." John ran a hand through his hair, wondering if there was some way he could have thought of Gaucher then.

Lestrade nodded in understanding. "So the symptoms he was showing were masked by the PED use."

John looked at Sherlock. "Do you think Paolo was having bone issues as well?" Had he missed that too?

Sherlock shook his head. "Paolo was eating healthy, and obviously very active. You operated on his ligament. But you said he didn't recover as well from that surgery than from the first. You thought it was due to the PEDs, but part of that could have been from the Gaucher symptoms."

Lestrade took the paper back. "So, in the end, did the Gaucher Disease contribute to his death?"

Shrugging, John looked quickly at Sherlock before back at the police officer. "It's hard to be sure now. His body was cremated, so we have only the autopsy and his medical records to review, and they weren't specifically looking for signs of the disease. The blood sample shows he definitely had it, but the disease varies a lot in which symptoms show up, and at what age."

"Well, it certainly muddies the waters though." Lestrade stood up. "Dr. Watson, thank you for your help today. You are free to go now. Dr. Park, would you come with me?"

"Can Sherlock leave as well?" John asked as he got up.

Shaking his head, Lestrade opened the door to the interview room, leading Dr. Park through it. "No. We have a few more questions for him."

John could only see Sherlock for a second before the heavy metal door clanged shut behind them, locking the chemist alone inside the room. John felt a pang of unease. But it only made sense that the police were going to keep him as long as they could, now that he was in the station.

Lestrade took Dr. Park into another interview room, and John didn't doubt he was in for hours of questioning as well.

The hallway was busy, with cops rushing around, intent on their own business. No one was paying John any particular attention, so he left.

It had felt like they had been in there all day, but it was still bright outside. John checked his phone for the time, and then stared at it. _Should he? Was it going too far?_

With a sigh, John did a quick google search on his mobile, and called the number he found. "Mycroft Holmes, please."

"He's in important meetings. Can I take a message?" The assistant sounded distracted and dismissive.

"Tell him it's John Watson, and urgent."

...

John awoke to the soft click of the door, the silhouette of a man briefly in the doorway before the door closed again. The image made him sit up, and flick on a nearby light.

"Sherlock..." John gasped in relief, as the man shucked his coat, and the cap and glasses he had been wearing all week. He looked at the clock on the wall, shocked at how late it was. He had fallen asleep waiting up for him. "Were you at Scotland Yard all this time?"

Nodding, Sherlock dropped into the other chair. "The police had their questions. I'd probably still be there if my lawyer hadn't shown up. So thanks for that."

He looked exhausted, closing his eyes and letting his head drop against the back of the chair.

"Well, it was Mycroft who-" John started.

"Yes, I know." Sherlock sighed.

John leaned forward. "So, are you officially cleared as a suspect now?"

Shrugging, Sherlock turned his head to gaze at John. "Unofficially, yes. The police couldn't charge me with anything and the lawyer pushed them to complete their questioning. They warned me not to leave town in the next couple weeks."

It was as good as they could hope for. John felt relieved, knowing the police had enough other leads to investigate.

"Would you like some tea? Something to eat?" John asked, standing up and stretching.

Sherlock shook his head slowly, getting up as well. "No, that isn't what I want." He reached up, starting to undo the buttons on his shirt slowly.

John watched as he peeled off the shirt, throwing it onto the chair, and starting to unzip his trousers. "Oh really? What do you want?" The dim light in the living room was still bright enough to highlight the lean, long lines of Sherlock's body. John unconsciously licked his lips.

Slipping off his trousers, Sherlock stood in just his pants. "A long, hot shower."

"Oh, yeah, of course..." John nodded, turning away. "Um, I'll make you a sandwich..."

Sherlock walked past, grabbing John's hand, and tugging him into the bathroom. Once inside, he gave John a mischievous grin, reaching into the shower to turn on the hot water.

Turning back to John, his hands made quick work of getting them both naked, and they were soon standing under the spray.

Sherlock backed John up against the tiled wall, delivering hot, deep kisses that had John pressing closer for more. Soapy hands explored every inch of his skin, and he returned the favour.

"Sherlock..." John moaned when the taller man turned him around, just wanting, needing more. Instead, Sherlock worked shampoo into his hair, his long fingers massaging firmly against his scalp. It felt good, but it wasn't what he wanted right then.

Chuckling, Sherlock planted a kiss on his shoulder. "Patience...we have all night..."

He rinsed John's hair and then passed him the shampoo bottle.

With a little huff, John took it and took his time with Sherlock's hair. They were soon turning off the water and towelling each other off.

Sherlock urged him to the bedroom, and John needed no convincing. His emotions were a jumbled mess. Relief that they had found the other factors in Paolo's death. Admiration of the way Sherlock had pieced everything together. Pure lust that just came from being around this man.

Pinning Sherlock down in the bed, John kissed him deeply, wanting to show him without words everything he couldn't say. Sherlock was just as ardent, stroking greedy hands down John's back, urging him closer. It was as passionate as their first encounters, but with a familiarity of being together so many weeks. Knowing just how to touch, kiss, and stroke for the biggest responses.

...

Soft kisses went up his spine, making John hum in appreciation as he woke up. "Mmmmm Morning." It was nice knowing he had the day off, nothing to rush out of bed for.

There was a light nip of teeth against his neck. "Morning John." Sherlock's voice was slightly scratchy, and sounded wonderful. His arms were even better, wrapping John in a tight hug, pulling him against his chest.

Sherlock seemed to be in a very good mood, a cuddly mood, and John savoured it. It was so good, waking up with someone he cared about like this.

"I got some good news." Sherlock said softly. "Dr. Park had taken a deal for a reduced sentence, with the agreement that he has his medical license suspended."

John turned in his arms, giving Sherlock a delighted smile. "That is what we wanted, right? That is for the best. Keep him from harming others."

Sherlock nodded. "I couldn't have gotten through this last week without you. You put yourself at risk, letting me stay here, never thinking I was guilty...". He leaned in to kiss John, soft and sweet. Slow kisses.

Sinking into it, John kissed him back, feeling so much for this man.

Pulling back, Sherlock grinned down at him. "We need to celebrate this properly."

Chuckling, John dug his hand into Sherlock's messy curls, tugging him down for more kisses. "I thought we were just doing that."

Sherlock pulled back, laughing himself. "No, no...let's go out and have a decadent meal in a five star restaurant. Dress in our best. Really do it right."

John loved seeing him so happy like this, and loved being the one Sherlock wanted to celebrate with. But then a thought struck him, and he looked down, trying to sort it out.

If the news about Dr. Park was widely known, Sherlock would be seen in a better light by the public. No longer a murder suspect.

But he would still be getting attention, after being in the news so much. His face and name were probably more known now than ever before. If John went out to a fancy restaurant with him, they would likely appear in the tabloid websites. Even if he hadn't caused Paolo's death, he was still a chemist for DADT athletes.

John looked back at Sherlock. "Um, yeah, that would be great. Where should we go?"

Sherlock pulled back, and John knew he had read his expressions and tone, knew the truth. Without another word, he was out of the bed and John soon heard the bathroom door closing hard behind him.

 _Shit_.

Rubbing a hand over his face, John sighed. He had really fucked things up now. This was the second time Sherlock had asked him out, and the second time John had shown the reservations he had about it. Was his precious reputation more important than his feelings for Sherlock ?

Getting out of bed, he pulled his robe on, and walked over to the closed bathroom door. "Sherlock, please come out. I was an idiot. Let's talk."

It was a few minutes before he heard the door unlock, and Sherlock came out. He must have grabbed his suit from the front closet, dressed like he had been to go to the gallery. Looking every inch like Sherlock now, not a hint of Frank left. Even his expression was the distant one that reminded John of when they first met at the hospital.

"I was the fool here, John. Not you. I'll leave now, let you get back to your normal life." Sherlock said a bit woodenly, as he walked to the door.

John just shook his head, and ran to stand in front of it. "Sherlock..."

The taller man pulled the door open, nudging John out of the way. "Goodbye, John." His green eyes looked a little lost as he said the words, but he turned and was gone before John could reply.

 _Shit shit shit..._

...

John slumped in a chair with a huge mug of tea, wrapped in a thick blanket. The light in the flat was dull, grey, as a steady rain fell outside. The weather suited his mood.

The flat was so strangely quiet, the silence almost seeming to echo around him. Normally he would just put in some good music, get busy working on something, but nothing felt right.

How could a man who had only been here a week feel like such a part of John's life? Sherlock had been so vibrant, so moody and changeable, it always kept John in his toes.

Yet all of it was for nothing now. His stupid, knee-jerk reaction to Sherlock's career had the man practically running from the flat. And no wonder. If he couldn't accept what Sherlock felt passionate about, he had no right to be a part of his life.

The whole concept of untrained people administering powerful drugs to healthy people was the core issue. Athletes were in good health, seeking to be the best. The fastest and strongest. Drugs were used for purposes beyond the scope they were designed and tested for.

Sherlock admitted to giving Baresi a chemical cocktail that included steroids and EPO. EPO was basically a synthetic version of the hormone the body produced to trigger greater red cell production. It was developed to treat anemia. In athletes, it was used to bring hematocrit to high levels, to increase oxygen delivery to the muscles. Improperly given, it could result in dangerously high hematocrit, resulting in blood that was too thick. Straining the heart, leading to possible heart attacks, or other problems.

Chemists at Sherlock's level knew the dangers, and most were able to administer the drugs without major, obvious short term adverse effects. But in such an unregulated system, how were the bad ones kept from doing harm?

As a doctor, Park's unethical behaviour was resulting in jail time, and being stripped of his medical license. He wouldn't be able to call himself a doctor anymore, hiding his actions behind a facade of legitimacy.

Chemists dispensing these powerful drugs weren't under such scrutiny. Only if there was obvious bad effects, like a death, would their actions be questioned. How many did dangerous treatments that would give horrible long term effects to the athlete? Things harder to prove that were caused by a certain drug, so the chemist was never held accountable?

It went against the core of John's medical training. Even if John was positive Sherlock was operating under safe parameters, being seen publicly with him was like an implied blanket endorsement of his career. An acceptance of DADT chemists, PEDs, the whole industry. And it just didn't sit right with John.

His practical side argued back that people had access to PEDs for decades, and were going to use them whether or not they were legal and accepted. Just like narcotics. Having them restricted just fed the black market. It didn't reduce the demand, it just made it more profitable for those who supplied it. Made the supply more dangerous, potentially less pure. Better to have it as above board as possible, with educated adults taking the drug they wanted to take, well aware of potential risks.

Getting up, he put the empty mug in the sink, and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He held up the amber fluid, looking at it through the cut glass of the tumbler.

Alcohol was dangerous too. Regulated to keep it out of the hands of children. But any adult could purchase it and use it in a way that could harm himself, and others. John's parents had been killed in a car accident with a drunk driver. The driver had been caught and charged, but it wouldn't bring John's parents back.

Taking a sip, John allowed the alcohol to sit on his tongue, tasting the complex flavors before he swallowed. Even with his family history, his parents' deaths and sister's alcoholism, he didn't think there should be prohibition against alcohol. He didn't blame the people selling the product for what had happened to them.

Was Sherlock really any different than someone running a wine boutique? Selling the most expensive blends of his product with extensive knowledge? People bought his wares, knowing the dangers. If he wasn't doing it, others would step in to fill the need, likely doing it not as well.

Was this all just convoluted reasoning? John trying his hardest to justify wanting to be with Sherlock, despite his profession? Deep down, John knew being associated with him would make this question come up. And John needed to know how to respond to it.

The whiskey glass was long empty by the time John nodded to himself, and picked up his phone.

 **Mr. Holmes, I would be honoured to go out to dinner with you tonight. - J**

His heart pounded hard in his chest as he waited for a response, the phone still clutched in his hand.

It finally came, almost ten minutes later.

 **Simpsons' in the Strand. 8. -SH**

...

-A/N: I think there will be 2-3 more chapters. Thanks for reading so far!

-Dr Park is a hypocrite: Being a passionate sports fan, and older than John and Sherlock, he grew up loving sports before the DADT league existed. People who used PEDs were considered cheaters and kicked off their teams. PED use was of course widespread in sports, but athletes were good at hiding it. They used newer drugs that didn't have tests yet, or stopped using drugs for a certain period before they were likely to get tested so they wouldn't show up.  
When the DADT league was created, many older sports fans objected, calling it the 'cheater' league, and the old one the 'pure' league.  
He is also a hypocrite in that he was treating some athletes with 'blood doping', by removing blood, freezing it, and adding it back later to increase hematocrit levels. He justifies it to himself that he isn't using drugs on them, just giving them back their own blood.

-Tour de France: Lance Armstrong is probably one of the most famous athletes stripped of many of his wins due to PED use. Increasing hematocrit levels with transfusions or EPO was popular amongst the cyclists before there was ways to test for them. Deaths potentially caused by high hematocrit levels: 20 Dutch and Belgian cyclists between 1987-1990, 7 Swedish cyclists between 1989-1992, and 8 cyclists under the age of 35 between 1989-1992.

-Gaucher disease is a genetic disorder in which people do not have enough of a certain enzyme in their body to break down a certain type of fat. The fat then builds up in the liver, spleen, bone marrow and nervous system, interfering with normal functioning in various ways. (The fat is called glucocerebroside, and the enzyme is glucocerbrosidase).  
Common symptoms include enlarged liver and spleen, anemia, bone breaks, but many other areas of the body can be affected.  
Gaucher disease occurs in about 1 in 50,000 to 1 in 100,000 individuals in the general population. Type 1 Gaucher disease is present 1 in 500 to 1 in 1000 people of Ashkenazi Jewish ancestry.  
Lab tests for the enzyme levels. DNA analysis can also look for the gene for the most common mutations.  
Treatment is giving a modified form of the enzyme by IV every two weeks, stopping the progression of the disease and reversing many of the symptoms. Sometimes removal of the spleen (splenectomy), blood transfusions, pain medications or joint replacement surgery is needed.

-Paolo Baresi & Gaucher Disease: My fictional character apparently has fairly mild onset of symptoms, with anemia and enlarged liver being the main ones. Gaucher Disease can affect the heart as well, and may have been a contributing factor in his death. He could have noticed more symptoms showing up in his last year, and attributed them to side effects of the PED use. It may have made him more desperate, more willing to take risks, fearing that his body wasn't handling the demands of the sport, aging and side effects of the PEDs very well. Knowing his days as a pro athlete were numbered.


	14. Chapter 14

John tugged at his suit jacket, making sure it was sitting right, as he followed the host through the restaurant. It had been a long time since he had felt this nervous.

Sherlock was already sitting at their table, and he rose, a welcoming smile on his face that didn't quite reach his eyes. He was wearing a black suit and a white dress shirt, but no tie. Handsome enough to draw more than just John's eye.

Sitting across from him, John took in the classic decor. White tablecloths, dark wood paneling on the walls, crystal chandeliers hanging overhead.

"It has looked pretty much the same for over 200 years." Sherlock commented, taking a sip from his water glass.

John let out a shaky chuckle. "Incredible history here, though. Didn't Charles Dickens and Arthur Conan Doyle dine here?"

Smirking slightly, Sherlock nodded. "Yes, but I doubt it was ever at the same time. Doyle was only eleven when Dickens died."

Rolling his eyes, John shot him a fond look. The joke helped relax him a little and he took a sip of water, to relieve his dry mouth. "Is there anything you don't know? Like at the police station, I was shocked by almost everything you said."

"I have a good memory and a good eye for detail." Sherlock shrugged. It was rare for him to be so humble about his abilities.

Their server came by, opening a bottle of wine and passing them the 'Bill of Fare'. John reviewed it, not really surprised that the menu reminded him of restaurants he went to in his youth with his family on special occasions. The only thing significantly changed was the prices, astronomically in most cases. But with so many meat choices, it was hardly unexpected.

"Don't bother with that, John. Everyone just gets the roast beef here." Sherlock said dismissively.

Deferring to his experience, John nodded and let him order for them. Sherlock had spent a week living in his world, it was only fair to reserve judgment and try Sherlock's for the evening.

John sipped the wine, giving an appreciative moan. "Perhaps I have not said it before, but it is more than just your eyes and memory. I don't say this lightly, but you are brilliant, Sherlock."

"Thank you, John." The other man looked pleased at the compliment, a little of his reserve softening.

Daringly, John reached over to take Sherlock's hand, giving it a light squeeze. "I mean it. How did you track down Matteo?" Things had been moving so fast the last couple days, he hadn't had a chance to ask.

"I went back to the Italian church, and talked with a different priest. A younger one. He was more...amenable...to talking with me about the parishioners than the older priest." Sherlock took a roll, and spread it with butter.

"Amenable...". John gave him an assessing glance, and then his eyes widened in realization. "Sherlock, did you get...um...'intimate'...with a priest to get information from him?" He said the last part in a whisper, glancing around them for who might be close by. Luckily, the restaurant was only half-full.

Chuckling, Sherlock shook his head. "No, of course not. It was just a bit of flirting."

When weighed against the possibility of a wrongful murder conviction, John could understand that Sherlock was willing to do that. Still, something tightened in his gut at the idea of Sherlock making his expression one of intense interest, those gorgeous eyes full on sinful promise, and small private smiles being shared with a young, lonely priest.

He was saved from replying by their server arriving with a cart covered with a silver dome. Removing it, there was a beautifully roasted cut of prime rib, dark with an herbed crust, perfectly pink in the centre. As the server carved them off their pieces, the smell of beef made John's mouth water. A scent that again brought up memories of his childhood.

Soon, they had full plates of beef, roasted potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, gravy and vegetables. John sliced through the tender meat, taking a small bite, closing his eyes to savour it.

When he opened them, Sherlock had a small, pleased smile on his face, digging into his own meal. They ate in quiet companionship, giving the luxurious meal the full attention it deserved. The food was much richer than he was used to, so John ate slowly, taking small bites.

It was only when he set down his cutlery that Sherlock gave him a more intense look. "I can sense you have a lot of stirred up feelings, being with me tonight. Have I pushed things too far, bringing you here?"

Their attentive server took away their empty plates, leaving them with the dessert menu to consider. John welcomed the interruption, needing the time to collect his thoughts.

"You are right, Sherlock. But a lot of it isn't about you." He took a sip of water. "It's reminding me of the past, my family. Things I haven't considered for a long time."

"Really? Tell me more."

It said a lot about how far they had come in the last week that Sherlock felt comfortable asking that of John. Things he rarely discussed with anyone. It said even more that John was going to answer him.

"Sunday roast was a tradition in my family. Back then, it wasn't that unusual, was it?" John played his fingers along the stem of his wine glass. "Even when I was in uni, we often had this type of dinner on special occasions when I was back home."

Sherlock nodded, staying quiet to allow John to continue on at his own pace.

Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly. "My parents were killed in a car crash when I was twenty. My sister was already having addiction issues, so I could hardly turn to her. School, my friends there, became the only thing that kept me together."

John looked up from the glass, meeting Sherlock's gaze. It was warmer than before.

"The army became my family after that, throwing myself into learning everything I could. It was nice being away from things that reminded me of my family. A relief." John gave a half-shrug.

Sherlock reached over, taking John's hand. "But then you were injured..."

John blinked fast, trying to hold back his tears. "You remember Janine saying I was a little lost when I came back. No family, everything here so different..."

"But you made new friends, went into Ortho." Sherlock added. "I'm sorry. I wanted to take you somewhere special tonight. I never thought..."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand back. "It is special, Sherlock. The meal was delicious. Being here with you is incredible."

The server came back, checking if they wanted anything else.

"No thanks. I'm still so full." John said, letting go of Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock surprised him by ordering some dessert to go. At John's raised eyebrow, he just shrugged. "We may get peckish later."

"You have a sweet tooth." John grinned slowly, loving that he was still learning things about this man.

Outside the restaurant, John hesitated. They had come separately, and Sherlock had bought dessert for them to eat later. Did that mean he wanted to come back to his flat?

Sherlock gathered him against his side, arm along his lower back, and guided them in the direction of John's flat. How many times had they walked around London together, the urgency of the investigation making them speed along? Now they had time to stroll together in a quiet bubble, just the two of them inside.

But as they neared his flat, John saw Francesca at the market across the street. She waved at John, but her arm froze halfway up as she looked closer at Sherlock, clearly confused.

With a jolt, John realized what she was seeing, and stepped away from Sherlock. The move earned him a quick look.

"Oh, they are used to seeing you with Frank." Sherlock whispered into his ear, cuddling back against his side. "Aren't you naughty, cheating on your sweet boyfriend with some fancy thing for the night?"

The words and a nip to his neck had John grabbing Sherlock's hand, to rush to his building, racing together up the stairs.

John shoved Sherlock against the door once it was closed, kissing him deeply. Pure need practically had him tearing at his clothes, trying to get them off fast.

Sherlock was just as bad, grinding his hips against John shamelessly as he pushed his suit jacket off. "Fuck, you look so good like this." His hands dug into John's hair, making the kisses even more intense.

Half undressed, they made their way to the bedroom, finally breaking apart to strip. John pushed Sherlock down onto he bed, crawling over him as he kissed along his hot skin. "Need you so bad, Sherlock."

"Mmmm... take me, take me..." Sherlock chanted back as he writhed under John's touch.

...

Sherlock gave a mischievous grin as he climbed back into bed, propping their pillows against the headboard. He passed John a spoon and opened the container from the restaurant. They both dug in hungrily.

"I said you were brilliant before, but now I think you are a fucking genius." John licked his spoon clean, and went to scoop up more.

Chuckling, Sherlock carefully scooped something up. "Wait. You haven't even had the best bit yet. Open up."

John opened his mouth, eating the dessert off of Sherlock's spoon. The creamy rice pudding had just the right amounts of sugar, vanilla and cardamom. He bit into something, and moaned. "Oh my god, is that pineapple?"

"Mmmm hmmm." Sherlock hummed in agreement, the low sexy tone making things inside John tighten in response. "Chunks of fresh, roasted pineapple."

John hadn't had pineapple, any pineapple, for a decade, at least. "I'm so glad you paid for dinner. It must have cost a fortune." He was only half kidding. He had glanced at the prices, and shuddered to think of the final bill, with wine and this dessert added.

"You deserve a decadent treat after putting up with me all week. Even without the murder suspicion over my head, there are few people out there who would have done it." Sherlock took a big spoonful himself, enjoying it with obvious pleasure.

"Yeah, right. You probably have dozens of lovers all over Britain, eager for more." John joked back. Sherlock was far too good-looking, and far too good in bed, to claim he was ever alone unless he chose to be.

Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly. My only serious boyfriend in uni said I destroyed everything he had. He said after being with me, he understand why storms are named after people."

John sat up straighter, turning towards Sherlock. He had said so little about himself, his past. "Really? Like you literally destroyed his stuff? Broke it? You had a bad fight or something?"

It was hard picturing it, Sherlock shouting and throwing things around. But just like John used to get into fights when he was younger, especially after a few drinks, it was possible that Sherlock had been like that in early relationships.

"Um, no." Sherlock put down his spoon. "He took things really hard after I ended the relationship. He kept trying to get back together, saying how much he missed me, all upset. And then getting mad and yelling at me when I refused."

John cuddled against his side. "We have all had hard relationships like that when we are young."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "Liam said he couldn't go anywhere without remembering being there with me. His classes, his room, around town. That's what he meant when he said I 'destroyed' everything for him. He ended up transferring to a different school at the end of the term."

Turning his face towards his own, John could see the regret there. "Hey, that was years ago, and I bet Liam is doing great now. Changing schools was just what he needed." He kissed Sherlock lightly. "Come on, help me eat the rest of this."

Sherlock took a few more bites, and let John have the rest. He cleared away everything to the kitchen, and when he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth, Sherlock was already there, doing the same thing. They got ready for bed with easy familiarity, and John smiled to himself.

He was glad he had accepted Sherlock's invitation for dinner now. It had been such a good meal, talking, holding hands. Great sex and then sharing dessert. Talking more than they ever had about their pasts. Sherlock being so open, in a way he hadn't been before.

John snuggled against Sherlock, reaching across him to turn out the light. "So, what do you want to do tomorrow?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I need to get home, really. I've ignored all my clients all week, and have tons of work to do."

Nodding, John ran a hand up and down his chest. "That's understandable. I could bring over some dinner maybe for us. Or I could even help you. I'm pretty good in chemistry."

Pulling back a little, Sherlock gave him a funny look. "John...". He sighed.

"What?" John asked, looking hard at Sherlock. A terrible thought struck him. "Oh, do you need some space? Yeah, I suppose we have been together almost 24/7 this last week." It stung a little, but he got it.

Sherlock shook his head. "Look, this week has been great, but I really think we should go back-"

John looked at him incredulous. "Are you seriously suggesting we go back to being fuck buddies?"

"Well, if you are OK with that, I'd really like-"

"Do I look like I'm OK with it?!" John sprang out of the bed, glaring down at Sherlock. "Why are you saying this? We have something, don't we? Why the romantic dinner tonight if you didn't want, didn't think..." He was getting dangerously close to losing it, his voice wobbling at the end.

Sherlock got out of bed, standing in front of John and rubbing his hands up and down his arms. "I'm sorry, John. I never meant it like that. What you saw as the start of something, I intended as an ending. Marking, honouring what we have shared. A way to say thank you."

"Dinner and goodbye sex? That's what tonight was to you?" John turned away, looking out of the window.

Sherlock sighed, still rubbing John arms, trying to settle him down. "John, let's be honest with each other here. I do care about you, but I could never be what you want, what you need. You know it. I saw it in your eyes when you hesitated to go to dinner with me."

John shook his head. "But I said yes! We went out. It went well."

"It doesn't change the fact that you work for the NHS, live in a commune, and are practically a vegetarian even though you can afford meat. You are a fine upstanding member of society." Sherlock said softly.

John scoffed, pulling out of Sherlock's hold. "That sounds terribly dull."

Sherlock turned John back around. "I've lived here with you, and I know I'd drive you crazy if I stayed. I do work people don't approve of. Sometimes I don't talk for days. I play the violin at all hours. You've seen my flat, it's more of a lab than a kitchen. I'm rude and impatient with most people. You want to be with Frank, not me."

"We could find a way to make it work, Sherlock." John just felt tired and numb now, everything Sherlock was saying sinking in.

Sherlock shook his head, looking away. "I know how it would go, John. We would try, and I'd disappoint you in a hundred tiny ways, until any feelings you have for me were gone. I'd rather end things as friends, than enemies."

He stepped away, grabbing his clothes and yanking them on fast. He walked to the front closet and soon had his coat on.

John trailed after him, speechless. Wanting to yell and scream and yank him back to his bed. Hug him and hold him there until he changed his mind. Instead, he rubbed away the occasional tear that streamed down his cheek, feeling hurt, sad, and confused.

Sherlock paused, his hand on the doorknob, turning back to John. "I never wanted to hurt you, John. You are such a good, kind man. Don't let this change that." He stepped closer, tilting John's face upwards a little, the pain just as evident in his own eyes.

He kissed John, soft, gentle kisses. John closed his eyes, his hands trying to grab ahold of his coat lapels, pull him in for more. But before he could do it, Sherlock slipped out of his grasp, and the door shut quietly behind him.

...

-A/N: Drama! Angst! Bam! Pow!

-Simpson's in the Strand: From their website: "In 1828, The Grand Cigar Divan opened as a chess club and coffee house at 100 Strand. Chess has been woven into the fabric of the Simpson's story ever since.", "The finest ingredients from around the British Isles combine in a contemporary celebration of our culinary heritage.", and "Simpson's was a great favourite of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle... and his greatest literary creation. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson dine with us in both 'The Dying Detective' and 'the Illustrious Client'." They eat "28 day dry Roast rib of Scottish beef traditionally served from our trolley: Yorkshire pudding, slow roasted carrots, beef fat roasted potatoes, gravy & horseradish sauce" and "Rice pudding: Vanilla rice & cardamom infused, roasted pineapple". The restaurant is also used in a scene of Downton Abbey (5.05, around the 35 min mark) with Lady Mary saying 'What a treat. I haven't been to Simpson's for ages.'

-Beef: I can imagine in this future, very little arable land is permitted to be used for raising livestock, or growing food to feed livestock. Since Scotland is too hilly to grow crops in most areas, it has been used for grazing animals, most dairy cattle for milk and sheep for their wool. A small portion is permitted for beef. This would make the prices incredibly high, so only the richest can afford it, and maybe the middle class once or twice a year on special occasions.

-Arthur Conan Doyle: Hmmmm perhaps I shouldn't have had the boys mention this author. ;)

-Storms Named After People: These words really captured my interest. They are from poet Caitlyn Siehl. _"Do not fall in love with people like me. I will take you to museums, and parks, and monuments, and kiss you in every beautiful place, so that you can never go back to them without tasting me like blood in your mouth. I will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible. And when I leave you will finally understand, why storms are named after people."_


	15. Chapter 15

John hardly left the bed for the rest of the weekend. Sherlock's words played over and over in his head, everything from their time together the last couple months, especially this last week. The sheets still smelled of him, of them, and John shamelessly burrowed face first into his pillow, inhaling deeply.

No matter how much Sherlock's words made sense, that they probably wouldn't be good together as a couple, John kept thinking of the good times. Cuddling. Slow kisses. Incredible sex. The low rumble of Sherlock's chuckle when John had his ear against his bare chest. The drag of his hand down John's back. The glow in Sherlock's beautiful eyes when a new idea struck him. His hand holding his as they walked into a dangerous situation.

Why had he been such a fool, so hesitant to be with Sherlock? His sharp gaze had caught John's turmoil when he suggested going out to Simpson's or even the quiet Chinese food restaurant down the block. Was that Sherlock testing him? Seeing if John accepted him, and would be proud to be seen with him publicly? A test he had initially failed each time. Had that shattered Sherlock's belief that they could be a viable couple?

For hours yesterday, John had wrestled with his own ethics, and finally agreed to dine with Sherlock. What had Sherlock been thinking all day? That John only wanted to be with him behind closed doors, or in disguise? Acting like a 'normal' person. Not valuing Sherlock for the incredible, beautiful, unique person he was. No wonder Sherlock saw it as a goodbye dinner.

John scoffed, throwing back the covers to finally crawl out of the bed. Did he really put such a high value at fitting in that he couldn't be with Sherlock? Did he really value his work and home so much that he couldn't deal with any disruption Sherlock could cause? Wouldn't the great things of having Sherlock in his life outweigh the drawbacks?

He made a simple PB&J sandwich, and then poured a big tumbler of whiskey. Sipping the amber spirit, he put on some Charles Mingus, turning up the volume way higher than normal. Letting the wall of sound surround him, the crash of wailing brass, piano, string bass. Chaotic and emotional.

So many times, his life had changed in major ways. His parents dying and his sister's addiction had basically left him an orphan at twenty, and he had adapted. Thrown himself into working hard at uni, and getting financial assistance from the army to complete his education. The army had become a second family to him, bonding with other people far from home, until his injury had yanked him back to England. Lost and alone again. But he adapted again, learning how to live in the country so changed from his youth, and had struggled to establish his career.

Was he truly as thrown by the end of this 'relationship', if it could even be called that? A couple months of casual sex and a week of intense cohabitation. Big fucking deal. It was hardly a blip of time when put against his whole life.

But as he tried to scoff at it, distance and numb himself from it, his eyes fell to a multicoloured wool sweater on the chair Sherlock used the most. They had bought it at the used clothing store, and the style was completely Frank. It was a cardigan with a zipper and a hood, covered in thin stripes of bright colours like red, teal and lime green. No wonder Sherlock had left it and all the other clothes of Frank's. It was ridiculous thinking of Sherlock wearing back in his own flat, his own life.

Sighing, John turned down the music and carried his empty glass to the sink. He got out a cardboard box, and folded up the sweater, putting it inside. The other clothes that they had bought soon followed. On the top of the pile were the cap and the glasses Sherlock had worn so much. He almost reached in to take them out, tuck them away somewhere safe, but resisted the urge. Closing the box, he set it by the door.

He cleaned the flat thoroughly next, starting with stripping the sheets from the bed. In a couple hours, he was soaping up in a hot shower, feeling tired but resolute. He would get through this. He had to.

...

The news about Dr. Park was a hot topic of conversation at the hospital for a week or so. John noticed that Sherlock's role in uncovering the truth had been downplayed in the media. He had been seen as a villain by most people for a long time, and they weren't about to go against popular opinion. John avoided talking about the case as much as he could.

Things settled back to normal quite quickly. He enjoyed working with his staff, seeing patients, performing surgeries. Working on the roof garden with his neighbours, going out with friends. People in the building accepted that Frank had gone back to Cambridge, and didn't ask about him again.

Only Francesca gave him a long, considering look, before coming over to work on the bed of lettuce with him. "Did Frank break up with you because of that other man?" Her dark eyes were caring, her voice soft.

John felt his throat tighten, and had to take a few calming breath to relax. "Um, yes, I guess so. Things weren't really meant to be with either of them."

She nodded, throwing some weeds into the pail. "Frank was attractive and nice, but he seemed a little bland to me. You need someone more exciting than that, I think, to be happy."

Her comment almost made John laugh. "I think you are right. Someone who is somewhere between the two." It was true that Frank was easy to get along with, to live with, but Sherlock was the one John felt challenged and excited by. He was all wrong for John, but it had been so, so good.

Francesca put her gloved hand over his, giving it a squeeze. "If you ever want to talk, just knock on my door. I'm here for you."

John was unexpectedly touched by the offer. He had been putting up a normal facade for weeks now, not showing anyone how much he still missed Sherlock. How often he still thought about him.

She shifted closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, and he gratefully leaned into her. She hugged him tight, rubbing her hands up and down his back. Just being the comforting presence he didn't realize that he needed.

Pulling back after a couple minutes, he gave her a grateful look, and picked up his things, escaping back to his own flat. It was a bad night, unable to get his mind on anything else but Sherlock.

Where was he now? Back in his flat, putting around and playing with his chemistry set? Peering into his microscope or stirring up some potion? Did he miss John at all? Regret getting involved? Or had he just shrugged and moved on, John easily out of his thoughts when he was out of his sight?

Knowing it was a bad idea, John pulled out his VR head set. He was soon entering PlayLand, and created a whole new profile, a new voice and avatar. Searching through the virtual space, he evaded the other players, knowing he would somehow recognize Sherlock no matter what avatar he used.

After an hour, he yanked off the headset and pulled on his Mac. It was drizzling, very cold, but he just turned up his collar and marched out into the weather. It was stupid, stupid, stupid.

He didn't stop until he was on Baker Street, standing across the empty road and looking up at the second floor windows. The lights were on. He was there, inside, so close. John could just knock on the door, and Sherlock would be there, in front of him. To see, to touch, to- -

Cursing to himself, John spun away, ducking into a nearby alley to huddle in a doorway out of the rain. He was wet and shivering, the reality of where he was and what he was doing hitting him like a slap in the face. He was better than this.

Shoulders slumping, he yanked his coat tighter around himself, and walked quickly to the nearest tube station. The wet and cold was really hitting him now, and he just wanted a hot shower, dry clothes and a big mug of tea.

As he walked away, he missed the curtain on the second floor being moved back into place.

...

-A/N: John trying to be strong...

-Sorry it's taken a while to update this story. I had to think through a few things. I think there will be 1-2 more chapters. Thanks for reading & your patience.

-Charles Mingus was an American jazz double bassist, pianist, composer and bandleader. As a performer, Mingus was a pioneer in double bass technique, widely recognized as one of the instrument's most proficient players. Because of his brilliant writing for midsize ensembles, and his catering to and emphasizing the strengths of the musicians in his groups, Mingus is often considered the heir of Duke Ellington, for whom he expressed great admiration. (Wikipedia)


	16. Chapter 16

**\- TEN MONTHS LATER-**

"Do you like spicy?" Theresa leaned closer to John, giving him a bit of a flirty smile.

John matched her expression. "Definitely." He deliberately looked down from her warm brown eyes to her full lips before meeting her gaze again. Their flirting had been heating up a little on this date, and he was getting the feeling she would welcome some kisses before they said goodnight later.

Theresa smirked back, and turned to the server. "We'll share the Shiro Beyaynetu."

As the server left, she stood. "I'll be back in a minute."

John nodded, and watched as she wove her way through the busy restaurants towards the washrooms, admiring her slim form in a turquoise dress.

"You like her a lot, I can tell." Eva grinned, taking a sip of her wine.

Mike chuckled. "That's hardly news. John has been wanting to date Theresa since they met, years ago."

Rolling his eyes at his friends, John gave a little shrug. "It's early yet. This is only our third date."

So far, it had been going surprisingly well, having enough in common to try a variety of activities. The first date had been some casual after work drinks at a pub near the hospital, running quite late when they got into a spirited game of darts. The second date had been walking the Oak Trail in Epping Forest, watching for deer and other wildlife, and lunching in the small town nearby before taking the train back to London. Somehow, this one ended up being a double date with Mike and Eva, who Theresa knew slightly. They seemed to get on.

John was trying to keep his hopes and expectations in check, just wanting things between Theresa and himself to develop at their own pace. He didn't want to screw anything up by rushing. At the end of the last date, he had dared to take her hand to give it a warm squeeze and kissed her cheek goodbye.

Theresa was soon back, and they dug into their meals, chuckling as they tore off pieces of injera to scoop up the flavorful food. As Mike told a funny story about a recent patient, John watched how Eva nodded along, supporting him even though she had probably heard it all before. They had been married for years and had two kids. John wanted to be as close and loving with his eventual partner as they were.

Theresa reached over, taking his hand to give it a squeeze. Their eyes met, her's fond and happy, warming him. This could really be something.

...

"I really enjoyed that. Although I think next time I'll encourage Mike to have a couple more drinks. He's known you long enough to have some really great secrets about you to spill." Theresa chuckled, looking up at John outside her building.

John was in no rush to go. It was a mild spring night; warm enough to get by just wearing a light jacket. The air was sweet with the scent of the nearby flowering apple trees.

He chuckled, stepping closer and taking her hands. "It won't work. I've got just as many stories about him as he has about me. He'll be silent as the grave."

Her dark eyes glinted in the moonlight. "Hmmmm...I see you didn't bother denying you have some secrets in your past. Were you terribly naughty, John?"

Shaking his head slowly, John moved even closer. "No, just the right amount of naughty." His voice was low, barely a whisper, as he leaned in to kiss her lightly.

She kissed him back, her hands coming up to his shoulders, his going loosely around her back as the kiss deepened. Sweet, short, light kisses became lingering ones.

John pulled back reluctantly a few minutes later, catching his breath as he stared down at Theresa. She looked lovely, her full lips tempting him to kiss her some more, panting slightly just like John. The chemistry between them was undeniable, and a relief to know it was there. It was something they could explore more on future dates.

"Goodnight, Theresa." John said with a warm look.

She stepped back, nodding. "Goodnight, John."

Watching until she was safely inside her building, John turned to walk to the tube station with a spring in his step. It had been a long time since he had dated anyone so promising. What should their next date be? Maybe going to a play or a concert?

He was still thinking over ideas as he waited for the train.

 **Thanks for tonight. It was fun. -T**

The text was a pleasant surprise.

 **It was. I'm glad you liked my friends. -J**

 **So, why did Mike call you 'Three Continents Watson'? - T**

John chuckled when he read that. Hmmm... how to answer... He hadn't text flirted with anyone for ages.

 **Just bugging me because I've travelled more than most people do these days. -J**

 **Bollocks. He had a bit of a smirk saying the nickname. There's more to it than that. -T**

The train came, and John got on. It was about half-full this time of night, and he found a seat easily. He continued the text banter with Theresa, loving her gentle teasing.

He was pulled out of it by a low chuckle nearby, and automatically looked around to see where it came from, a tingle of awareness shooting down his body. It happened from time to time, a low pitched voice, a head of dark curls, a long dark coat...something that had his eyes seeking for more. It was always for naught, feeling let down when it invariably turned out to be a stranger. It was hardly surprising, in the city of millions, that they hadn't run into each other in all these months.

His scanning eyes did stop, a man sitting a few seats away, just the back of his head visible through the light crowd. Dark curls. Could it be him? He held his breath, waiting for more.

The man turned his face to the side, chatting with the young man sitting beside him with an easy smile.

It was Him. Sherlock. After all these months. On the same train, not ten steps away.

John avidly took him in, looking for any changes since he had seen him last, that awful goodbye at the flat. He seemed happy, joking and laughing with his friend, looking just as delicious as always. That thick hair. The sharp angle of his cheekbones. His full lips pulled back as he smiled.

As the train pulled into a station, the men stood up together and stepped off. John rose as well, awkwardly blinking, part of his brain urging to go after them, follow them, while the more sensible part had him sinking back down on his seat.

His heart was pounding, his breathing fast, as he shook his head, gathering himself back together. His phone was still clutched in his hand, and he glanced down, seeing he had missed three texts from Theresa. How long had he been staring at Sherlock? Seconds or hours? Not nearly long enough.

He shoved the phone into his pocket, too distracted to think of replies. Staring out of the window, stations whizzed past. They had gotten off at Warren Street, no where near Baker Street. Were they lovers, heading back to the other man's flat? Sherlock had certainly seemed close with the man. John had been looking at Sherlock too much to really evaluate it.

It was so frustrating, just that quick glimpse of him. John got off at his station, walking home. That stupid part of his brain was urging him to get back on the tube, go to Baker Street.

 _And what? Do a stake out? Huddle in the shadows waiting hours for Sherlock to return? To barely catch another unsatisfying glimpse of him as he entered the building?_

It was the same part of his brain that had him doing just that when they had broken up. He had felt ashamed later, giving into such weak impulses. He wouldn't do it again.

Shaking his head, he called himself a dozen types of fool as he went into his flat. He eventually calmed down, replying to Theresa's texts after apologizing for the delay.

...

"I think the garden would be best. We could string up some fairy lights and light candles." Francesca suggested, taking a sip of tea.

Belinda from John's floor nodded in agreement. "We could set up a stage in here for any musicians in the building, leave the doors to the garden open for people to move around freely."

John poured himself another cup of tea from the pot. "I know Bill has been brewing some beer."

It was developing into quite a good party. The building sometimes had bigger events than the monthly potluck, getting a group of planners together to work out the details.

Bill walked by, and John waved him over to their table. "Hey, will the beer be ready by the 21st?"

The tall man nodded. "Yes, and it will go great with the fish." He sat down, joining the small group as they made more plans.

"We have enough to invite a guest or two, right?" Belinda looked up from her notes.

Francesca nodded. "We'll have lots of side dishes, salads and desserts."

Bill looked over at John. "You should invite Frank. The whole system wouldn't have worked so well without his help planning it."

 _Frank_. The name hit John out of the blue, bringing up so many memories. He had barely shoved them down after seeing Sherlock a couple weeks ago on the tube, and here he was again.

Francesca reached over, giving John's hand a squeeze. "He's in Cambridge, Bill. Why would he bother coming down for a fish fry?"

He appreciated her quick reply, giving him a convenient excuse. She was one of the few people in the building who knew how hard he had taken the break-up with Sherlock. They had talked many evenings while working in the garden, or over a glass of wine in his flat. A good supportive friend.

The meeting carried on, John barely following along, trying to act normal.

...

Later, back in his flat, he went to bed early, feeling tired.

It was so strange to have Sherlock popping up now, when he hadn't for so many months. Odd to think back on it now. This time, last year, they had been fooling around on PlayLand. Paolo had died about a year ago, and he had met Sherlock in person at that hospital meeting. Theresa was there too, ironically.

Things lately had been going well with Theresa. They had found time to squeeze a few more dates into their busy schedules, progressing to holding hands often when they were out together. End of the night kisses were heating up enough that John was wondering if he should push for more. He was still careful, not wanting to screw things up.

Theresa was heading to a family wedding in Manchester the weekend of this building party. Things were still a bit too new to attend a family wedding together, or go away for a weekend. John looked forward to having those firsts with Theresa later.

John would have invited her to the fish fry though, happy to show her around, introduce her to his created family.

Could he, should he, invite Sherlock as his Plus One to the party? He knew everyone, although as Frank. And Bill was right. It was Sherlock working on the plans with him that really made the aquaponics system work so well, the nutrient rich water fertilizing the plants in the greenhouse. The tilapia were fully grown now, and they were holding this building party to celebrate.

Would it be OK if he just sent the invite as a friend? 'Come see the results of what you started with Bill.' He could just drop by for an hour or two. Hanging out with the whole group. Casual.

They could be friends now, right? So much time had passed.

...

"John."

The low baritone voice had him whirling around, almost spilling his beer. "Sherlock! You came!"

The taller man arched an eyebrow at that. "You invited me." His expression was neutral, his green eyes scanning over John quickly.

Doing the same, John saw that Sherlock had changed very little. Still as attractive as ever. He swallowed hard, feeling awkward. Should he hug him hello?

He was saved from his internal debate when Sherlock stepped closer, wrapping John in his arms for a quick, friendly hug. "It's good seeing you again, John."

That voice in his ear, the scent of Sherlock's cologne, the warmth of his quick embrace had John hungering for more. He tried to appear normal as Sherlock moved away.

"Um..Sherlock, it's great to see you here. I wasn't sure if you would come." He could see Francesca giving him a funny look from across the room and sighed. "Look, people here know you as Frank."

That got him another raised eyebrow response. "Should I go put on the old cap and glasses again?"

John forced out a chuckle. "No, no...but we will have to introduce you as Sherlock and explain why you were staying here last year." It was time to start again with a clean slate. They couldn't move forward as friends without it.

He pulled Sherlock to a nearby clump of neighbors and got to it, explaining everything.

...

"Come on, I'll show you the tanks." Bill smiled at Sherlock as they finished their meals an hour later.

Glancing over at John, Sherlock flashed him a small smile when he nodded back, encouraging Sherlock to go with Bill. He deserved to see the results of his ideas.

John wasn't alone long, with Francesca and Janine filling the vacated chairs.

"I still can't believe I thought he was a different man! Why didn't you tell me Frank was Sherlock?" Francesca was never one to hold anything back.

John shrugged. "Would it have made a difference? It was over between us, either way."

She rolled her big dark eyes expressively. "I've been thinking you cheated on Frank this whole time!"

Chuckling, Janine rubbed her friend's back to quiet her down. "Are you so sure it's over between you? I saw how you looked at him during supper. There are some feelings there still."

It was hard hiding things from Janine. She knew him so, so well. He sighed, sipping more beer. "We have history. But we haven't been together for almost a year, and I'm with Theresa now."

"Are you?" Her eyes pinned him, and he floundered, the quick dismissive answer he was about to give disappearing like a puff of smoke.

Francesca reached over, giving John's arm a pat. "I know you are attracted to Fr-Sherlock. But I know also know how sad you were with how things ended. You are much better off with Theresa."

She had met Theresa briefly about a week ago, when John brought her back to the flat to cook her dinner. It seemed she haunted the building's hallways sometimes, ambushing John whenever he brought people around.

Janine scoffed. "From what I've heard about her, she sounds so uptight and dull! It is true she's a complete vegan and you didn't bring her tonight because she would have been freaked out about us eating fish?"

"No! She's tolerant about things like that. She's at a family thing in Manchester this weekend." John defended her.

Her eyes flicked over to Sherlock, now back in the room with Bill, talking animatedly. "So the mice are playing while the cat's away?"

John let out a small huff, getting up. "No. We had a quick fling last year, and we're just friends now. Quit reading more into it."

He escaped before the women could bug him anymore.

Going to stand at Sherlock's side, it was obvious that he was making his goodbyes to Bill. "Oh, are you going?"

Sherlock nodded, pulling his coat on. "Yes. It's been nice seeing everyone again though."

 _Nice seeing me?_ The question almost popped out of John's mouth, but he shoved it back down, nodding. "Hey, let me walk you to the tube station."

"I know the way, John. I lived here for a week." Sherlock's tone was dry.

 _Oh. He doesn't want me to walk him there. S_ tung slightly, John nodded, stepping back. "Oh, OK. Well, I'm glad that you came out to this tonight."

Sherlock pulled his collar up, his hands freezing as he looked down at John. "On second thought, come on."

John didn't question the change, just followed Sherlock out the door. It was awkward, walking in silence for the first block. Both likely remembering the many times they had walked here, hand in hand. It had felt so right. So good.

At the entrance to the station, Sherlock paused, turning towards John. "It meant a lot to me, tonight. Having you introduce me to your close friends and neighbors as your friend. Not being embarrassed that they know you were... involved with Sherlock Holmes."

"I was an idiot, my whole hesitation back then. I can't tell you how much I regret it." Could everything have turned out different, better, if he had come to those realizations back then?

Sherlock shrugged. "It is what it is. I'm glad we've evolved enough to be friends now."

John nodded, but found he couldn't look away from Sherlock. Standing close, taking in the handsome face he had missed so much.

"Goodnight, John." Sherlock said, giving him a light hug, but it soon became more. Was it Sherlock's arms tightening around John, or the other way around? Either way, they weren't pulling back and the hug went on and on.

John's heart was thumping hard, his face tucked against Sherlock's neck, breathing him in. What was this? He was afraid to say anything, for fear he would move away.

Eventually, Sherlock pulled back, taking John's hand and tugging him down into the tube station.

...

 _What was he doing? What were they doing? What was going to happen?_

Questions like that zipped through John's mind, practically in a loop as they rode the tube back to Baker Street, sitting close, thigh against thigh, holding hands. John wanted to cuddle against his side, dug his hands into his hair, kiss his neck, but he followed Sherlock's lead. A quick glance at his face revealed little.

Was this just sex? Ending things like they started? A night like they used to have? More? Surely, if Sherlock wanted more there would be words, kisses...

In the flat, things looked more or less the same. A jumble of glassware and science equipment on the kitchen table. Casual disarray elsewhere. So many memories of their times together here. John swallowed hard, turning towards Sherlock, searching his blank expression for any clues.

Sherlock slipped off his coat and got a couple bottles of water from the fridge, sinking down on the sofa and gesturing for John to sit beside him. He ran his hands through his hair and took a long sip of water before setting it down on the table, and turning towards him.

"I'm confused about you, John." Sherlock finally confessed, his voice troubled. "We are trying to be friends, but you are giving me these lingering looks, and hugging me too long. Aren't you involved with someone else now? A woman?"

John sipped the water, his mouth suddenly very dry. Of course Sherlock had heard about Theresa. He had seen Mycroft at the concert hall for Vivaldi's 'Four Seasons', while helping Theresa at the coat check. Knew he had seen the way she had leaned against his side, her arm around his waist, as they went into the auditorium.

It was no use denying it. John nodded. "You know her. Theresa Santos. We've been dating a few weeks now. What about you? Are you with anyone?" The thought of the man on the train flashed easily back into his brain.

Sherlock scoffed lightly at that, shifting back on the sofa. "You know me. I don't do relationships."

John shrugged. The man in the train seemed like more than a fling. "People can change, Sherlock."

"I can't." Defiant green eyes caught and held John's, daring him to argue it.

John looked away first, blinking fast to try to keep the wetness there from escaping. He thought he had dealt with all this last year. Thought he had put it all behind him. Was this just digging up old hurts, or getting some closure for their shared past?

It might be his only chance. To say whatever he needed to. Finish things off.

"I never wanted you to change. I like you as you are." John met Sherlock gaze steadily now.

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. "You were ashamed to be seen in public with me unless I was in disguise. You wanted Frank, not me."

"I will admit to needing to come to terms with your profession." John shifted a little, the words uncomfortably true.

Tilting his head slightly, Sherlock nodded. "You didn't seem shy about it tonight though." He seemed to be working through things as well, as confused as John was.

Daringly, John reached over and took his hand. "You are wrong about me wanting Frank. It was always just you."

The words sent a flare of heat through Sherlock's eyes, but it was quickly tamped down, as he withdrew his hand. "You are fooling yourself, saying that. Theresa Santos is a lot like Frank. She will fit well into your life. I'm happy for you."

"Fuck." John suddenly felt exhausted. This was all pointless. He got up, and went into the washroom. He used the facilities and splashed his face with water, staring at his image in the mirror. Sherlock was only saying things he had heard other people like Francesca say to him. What he said to himself. Why did it suddenly ring so false?

When he came out, Sherlock was still in the same position, looking moody as ever. This was futile. John pulled his coat on, and checked that he still had his keys and mobile. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

Why did every step towards the door and down the steps feel like walking with lead shoes? He pushed it all down, all the feelings swirling around inside him, blanked it all out, and trudged forward. He would get to the tube, get home, get to bed. Fall apart there. Not here. Not here. He could do this. Had to do this.

But hands caught him before he stepped out onto the street, pulling him back inside. The door slammed loudly, and Sherlock shoved him against the wall, crowding him, looking almost wild.

John surged up to meet him, mouths crashing together, pressing as close as they could. Hardly catching their breath between hard kisses, desperate and hungry. Somehow they worked their way back up the stairs and into Sherlock's bedroom. Clothes disappeared almost as quickly as they had in virtual reality, torn, wrenched off.

They were even less gentle with each other, greedy hands and mouths everywhere, gorging after months of starvation. Chasing every sensation, every moan and gasp of pleasure.

...

John woke up to an empty bed. It was disorientating at first, but the surroundings were familiar as was the pleasant ache of his body. It was a feeling he associated with his old days with Sherlock in this flat. Hours of uninhibited sex, incredible pleasure, and the ache the next day bringing up delicious memories that turned him on all over again.

He stretched in the golden light streaming through the window. Getting up, he had a long hot shower, and felt almost himself when he dried off. Back in the bedroom, he pulled on his jeans but chuckled when he examined his shirt. Half the buttons were gone, and one of the seams was ripped.

The door swung open, and Sherlock standing there, looking at the shirt in John's hands. His eyes then went to his bare chest, seeing the bite marks and scratches all over it. His expression was shuttered and blank.

"Um, I made coffee. You can borrow one of my shirts." Sherlock turned to go back to the kitchen.

"Sherlock, come back..." John reached out to grab his arm but Sherlock evaded him. Huffing to himself, John opened the closet door, looking for a shirt that would fit him. He knew the dress shirts would be tailored too small for his chest.

Shoved in the back he found a light grey sweatshirt, printed with 'University of Cambridge. Est 1209' in teal with the school's emblem. He pulled it on, and went to the kitchen.

Sherlock must have woken before him, as he was already showered and dressed. He waved towards an empty chair at the table, his equipment moved to the side.

John poured the coffee, adding milk. It was real coffee, and there was real sugar on a bowl too. He was tempted to add some to his beverage, but preferred it unsweetened. Cupping the mug with both hands, he took a small sip, savoring the full rich flavor.

"We can't do this ever again, John."

The flat words killed his good mood. He suspected Sherlock was stewing over something, but after last night, surely that had changed things so much. He took another sip of coffee before setting the mug down.

"I disagree heartedly. I think we should do this as often as possible."

Sherlock stared at him, shocked. He clearly didn't expect that response from John.

"But you are cheating on Theresa."

John tilted his head a little. "Technically, no. We were dating but not officially 'in a relationship'. We haven't had sex yet." He shrugged.

Clearly, Sherlock didn't believe him. "But Mycroft saw you together only a few weeks ago, said you were holding hands and looked like a couple."

"We were taking it slow. Getting to know each other. We have only kissed." Things had gotten to long, heated make out sessions, but no clothes had come off.

Sherlock glared at him, taking a long sip of coffee.

John shrugged. "Look, it's the complete opposite to how we did things but it's how many people date. But Theresa and I have both been in serious relationships and want to get to know each other more before things go further."

It was almost like John was speaking a foreign language. Sherlock seemed baffled by it all. "You just said 'We _were_ taking it slow.' Does that mean you are going to speed things up with her in the future?"

John chuckled. "No, silly. It means it's over with her. It's all in the past now. I'll break up with her when she gets back from her trip."

"Why?"

"Because I'm with you now."

"But I just said we can't ever do this again."

"And I disagree."

Sherlock scoffed at John's statement, looking down at him challengingly. "Oh, you are somehow going to force me to have a relationship with you against my will?"

John shrugged, taking another sip of his coffee. "Who dragged me back inside and shoved me against the wall last night?"

"That was just sex."

"Was it?"

"Yes. Kissing, nudity, fucking. People generally call that 'sex'."

John smirked, partially to annoy Sherlock, and partially because this was fun now. He poured himself another mug of coffee and added lots of milk and sugar. It tasted wonderful and he hummed in appreciation after taking a sip.

"Yes, it was fucking fantastic sex. But it wasn't ' _just_ ' sex, was it?"

Sherlock sighed. "You know I don't do relationships. Just sex."

"You did a relationship back in Uni." John looked pointedly down at the logo on his sweatshirt.

"Yes, and it went so spectacularly bad, I've sworn off them every since."

"Perhaps it wasn't that relationships in general are bad for you, but that one in particular. I'm proposing that I'm a better partner for you than some twenty year old wanker."

Sherlock sighed loudly and stomped out of the room. "Come with me. I want to show you something."

John followed, curious now. Instead of heading down the stairs, he was going up.

Emerging on the rooftop, he smiled at the set up similar to the one at his building. But it had its differences. Instead of raised beds of vegetables, these were lower and covered in short green plants with small flowers here and there.

Sherlock beckoned him to one end of the building. It was an amazing view, with Regent's Park to the North, and Hyde Park to the south. He could see the Marble Arch, Buckingham Palace, and the London Eye off in the distance. Most of the other buildings were office and apartment buildings with six stories or less, most topped with green roofs. It had been a mild spring, and everything was growing well.

One of the most striking things though was all the fruit trees in full bloom. They lined the streets, surrounded the buildings and filled the parks. In the last few decades, they had been planted everywhere, and the mature trees made spring in the city a constant wonder. Plums and pears in bloom in March, cherries in April, apples in May.

John smiled over at Sherlock. "It's beautiful up here."

"See, John? It's the essence of what's different between us. It's nothing but flowers everywhere now. You see paradise in all this. It just makes me want a lawnmower."

Rolling his eyes, John waved a hand towards the roof around them. "What's all this then? It looks pretty new."

Sherlock shrugged, looking away. "I found the roof of your building interesting and wanted to try something similar here. Mrs. Hudson got an assessment done, and it can only bear shallower soil. We planted clover because it is easy to grow."

"Seems like a lot of flowers for a guy who was just talking about lawnmowers." John smirked.

Grumbling to himself, Sherlock tugged John over to a bench facing out to the pretty view. "Look, we like each other, and the sex is great, but I still don't think we can have a relationship that lasts. I don't want to get involved in something that is bound to fail. I don't want to hurt you, or be hurt myself." Sherlock said, trying to be as reasonable as he could be.

John shook his head, taking Sherlock's hand. "I don't think it will be easy, but it will be worth it. Being apart from you for so long, and seeing you yesterday, it was amazing how my feelings are still as strong as ever for you, Sherlock. Please, please give us a chance."

Shaking his head, Sherlock looked off into the distance as he gathered his thoughts. "John, John...when things ended with Liam, it was awful how sad and wretched he was. Begging me to be with him again. Depressed and missing classes. It went on for months and I felt incredibly guilty and useless. I didn't share his feelings. I couldn't bear to try with you, and seeing you like that if things didn't work out."

"I wouldn't be. I'm strong." John tried interject.

"I got to understand a bit of what Liam felt when things ended with us last year. Everything in my flat reminded me of you, being with you, being so good together. Walking around London, there were so many places we had been together. It felt like you were haunting me." Sherlock looked down.

John scooted closer. "What did you do? Talk to someone? Drink? Do drugs? Sleep more? Work more?"

Sherlock sighed. "I threw myself into my work. I worked on this too."

"Me too." John said. It had been months before he had started feeling like himself again. He had only gotten back to dating lately.

Sherlock looked at John, his expression sad. "Liam compared me to a storm, destroying everything for him. He had to move away and start over, it was so bad for him. Look at you from one night with me; bites and scratches all over and your shirt in such bad condition you can't even wear it today. I'm no good for you, John. Go. Save yourself. Go back to someone safer, like Theresa."

John shook his head, so sick of hearing statements like that. "A lot of people run away from storms, Sherlock, but maybe I'm just a storm chaser. I like how I never know what to expect from you, and I love how crazy and wild you are. I don't want to tame you, make you into Frank. I love you just the way you are."

The words flowed out so easily, it took a second for John to realize what he had just said. He froze for a second, his heart pounding, and then he met Sherlock's gaze straight on. Letting him see that he truly meant it. His heart pounding hard for a whole different reason.

Sherlock shook his head, looking away, but his eyes were drawn back to John's. Denial changed to disbelief, and than to wonder. "Do you, really..."

John could only nod. Biting his lip. Waiting...

"But how can we..." Sherlock blinked fast, clearly overwhelmed, confused.

Seeing him so affected by John's words made him put a comforting arm around his waist, pressing against his side. "How can we what...?"

"How can we be together without me hurting you? Disappointing you?" Sherlock asked, his lack of experience in relationships showing so clearly.

The fact that he was asking the questions, seemed interested in trying, meant so much to John. He planted a kiss on his neck. "The whole time I've known you, Sherlock, you were never one who played by the rules. You bend them, break them, do whatever you need to do to make things work. We can do that with our relationship too."

Sherlock let out a small chuckle, and hugged John close. "We can?"

"We'll make our own rules, what will suit you, suit me, suit 'us' best. Throw out the rules that don't work. Keep the ones that do."

Sighing dramatically, Sherlock nodded. "Fine. Let's do this."

John couldn't believe how happy those words made him, words he never thought he would hear from this man. He turned Sherlock's head to give him a deep, long kiss. Pretty soon, things intensified, and Sherlock was urging him to straddle his lap.

The bench creaked alarmingly when John was moving, and he ended up jumping up, grabbing Sherlock's hand. "Let's take this back to bed. That bench can't handle the things I want to do to you."

Sherlock followed eagerly back down to the flat, and into the bedroom. As John pulled back the covers, and then reached for the bottom of his borrowed sweatshirt, he stepped forward to stay his hands. "Let me do it."

John nodded, dropping his arms to his sides.

Lifting the sweatshirt, Sherlock slowly pulled it up and off, his sharp, observant eyes taking in John's chest, lingering on the marks he had left there yesterday. He reached out, slowly tracing over them with his fingers, the light touch making John's breath come faster. Sex with Sherlock was exciting, passionate, sensual. But he had never touched John like this before.

Next, those long, clever fingers were undoing his jeans, and sliding them down and off. John crawled onto the bed, settling back on the pillows to watch his boyfriend slowly stripping for him. Never tiring of the sight of his slim, pale form emerging from the tailored clothing. Beautiful, graceful, sexy. Even better when Sherlock crawled over him, his eyes hungry, his mouth soft as he trailed kisses over John's chest.

Although Sherlock had not said those three special words back to John, his actions did for him. He took his time, slow, deep kisses followed by long strokes over his bare skin. Relearning him. His hands sliding into John's underwear to cup his ass, pulling him close, feeling how aroused they both were. Stripping John bare, and doing incredible things with his mouth and fingers, until John was a mess, begging for release. Still Sherlock teased him, using his special ointment that he had made even better. Sharing eye contact as they each found their eventual peak, nothing held back.

…

-A/N: One more chapter... a small epilogue. Thanks to everyone for reading this strange story!

-Follow me: delightful-fear-sherlock on tumblr.

- _Shiro Beyaynetu_ : This is an Ethiopian vegetarian platter for two people to share. _Shiro_ is a delicious chickpea powder-based dish that is slow-cooked with onions, garlic and Ethiopia's popular spice blend, _berbere_. It often includes other dishes like _miser wat_ (spiced red lentils), _kik alicha_ (yellow split pea stew), _gomen_ (collard greens), _dinich ena karat alicha_ (potato and carrot stew) and _key sire_ (beets, potatoes and carrot stew). Yummy, tasty foods all served on _injera_ , the spongy sourdough flatbread, that is also torn off in pieces to scoop up the foods.

-Oak trail walk: This is a 11 km walk in Epping Forest, a 40 min train ride from central London (20 km to the north of the city).

-'Four Seasons' is a group of four violin concerti by Italian composer Antonio Vivaldi, each of which gives musical expression to a season of the year, first performed in 1725. "They were a revolution in musical conception: in them Vivaldi represented flowing creeks, singing birds (of different species, each specifically characterized), a shepherd and his barking dog, buzzing flies, storms, drunken dancers, hunting parties from both the hunters' and the prey's point of view, frozen landscapes, and warm winter fires. Unusually for the period, Vivaldi published the concerti with accompanying sonnets (possibly written by the composer himself) that elucidated what it was in the spirit of each season that his music was intended to evoke. The concerti therefore stand as one of the earliest and most detailed examples of what would come to be called program music—i.e., music with a narrative element." (Wikipedia)


	17. Epilogue

The alarm went off, and John rolled over to hit the snooze button. When he sunk back under the covers, long arms encircled him, pulling him back into a warm embrace.

Chuckling, John put his hands down to stroke along those arms. "Sherlock, I need to get up." He wasn't eager to leave the cozy bed, but work was pressing.

"Boring." A low rumble near his ear pronounced, followed by some slow kisses down his neck. He shifted closer, pressing against John's ass.

John turned on to his back, smiling up at the sleep-rumpled man beside him. Pushing a hand into his messy curls, he dragged his head down for a deep kiss.

Sherlock moaned, shifting over John, things intensifying quickly.

Pushing a hand against his chest, John shook his head slowly. "I want to, but there's not enough time."

"But it's been ages." Sherlock complained, kissing along his jaw.

John scoffed. "Two days. You could come over before I'm asleep if you are gagging for it so bad." He sat up, rolling his shoulder to see how stiff it was this morning. Most mornings, he woke to Sherlock in his bed, usually not waking up when he arrived in middle of the night.

Large hands settled on his shoulders, massaging away the tension there. "Fine. How about I give you a hand in the shower?"

With a quick glance of the clock, and John nodded, dragging Sherlock with him to the bathroom.

...

"Could you tell Sherlock to be a little quieter when he comes over after 11 pm? There have been some complaints about him slamming the front door and running up the stairs." Francesca passed John another beer and settled on the sofa beside him.

He nodded as he took a long sip.

Janine accepted a beer from Francesca as well. "When are you two going to move in with each other? It's been months and things are going well, right?"

"Why do we need to do that? As you just said, things are going well, just as they are." John smirked back. It had been going great with Sherlock so far, much better than he had expected.

She gave him a look like he was an idiot. "Well, don't you want things to progress to the next level with him? Live together, maybe get married eventually?"

John shrugged. "The Mexican artists Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera lived in houses beside each other with a bridge between their roofs. Do you think we could get something like that here?"

Now Francesca was also giving him a funny look. "You two care about each other deeply, I can tell when I see you together. And he seems to spend most nights here already. What's the problem?"

John sighed, picking at the paper label on his bottle as he gathered his thoughts. "You two still think of him as Frank, but Sherlock really isn't like that. You haven't seen his flat or the nature of his work. He basically has a chemistry lab in his kitchen, and works long hours. He truly is a genius."

"So...?" Janine prompted.

John flicked her a glance. The women were close friends, and he truly didn't mind discussing this with them, but he wondered if there was any way to really explain it. "We are men over forty with well established careers and lifestyles. I wouldn't want to live full time in his chaotic mess, and he would feel stifled living here, behaving like Frank. We are better off with our own living spaces. We would probably get frustrated and argue constantly if we lived together."

Francesca shook her head, putting down her empty bottle. "But part of being in a serious relationship is changing and compromising to be together. Supporting each other, sharing your lives."

"We have that, and things are working as they are. It may not look like a conventional relationship from the outside, but Sherlock is a far from conventional man." John took the last sip of his beer.

Janine let out a little huff. "So, you are settling for less than you deserve to be with him. Taking what you can get. It might work OK now, but I know you, John. You won't be happy with this long term."

Getting up, John gathered up the empty bottles and put them in his recycling bin. He came back to the living room, leaning against the doorframe. "I've had good relationships and opportunities to be with great people in the past, but something was always missing, Janine. It's Sherlock. He gives me what I need. Be happy for me, OK?"

Francesca got up, and gave him a hard hug. "I am happy for you, John."

Janine hugged him next. Her dark eyes searched his when she pulled back. "Yes, I do see that you are happy, happier than I've seen you for a long, long time. You deserve to be."

Ushering them towards the door, John felt relieved that they seemed to understand things better now. "Thanks for coming by, but I need to pop in the shower now."

Francesca smirked at Janine as she slipped on her shoes. "Ah yes, it's Saturday night. Sherlock always shows up, dressed to the nines, to take John out somewhere fancy."

"Really?" Janine chuckled, shooting John a teasing glance. "Date night, is it?"

Rolling his eyes, John yanked open the door and basically had to shove the smirking women out of his flat. "Get out, you damn harpies." He chuckled as he shut the door behind them.

Glancing at the time, he had to rush a little now. A quick shower, a careful shave, and dressing in a good suit. Being with Sherlock, he had indulged in some nicer clothes for nights like this, and found he liked it. Anticipation built as he got ready.

The knock on his door made him grin, and he walked over to open it. Sherlock looked fantastic, the deep indigo of his dress shirt bringing out his pale skin and making his green eyes seem darker.

John liked the way Sherlock was looking back at him, the appreciation making his earlier efforts completely worth it. "Where are we going tonight?"

Sherlock leaned in to steal a quick kiss. "It's a surprise. Somewhere we've never been before."

After locking the door, John wrapped his arms lightly around his waist. "Mmmmm... I like surprises."

Placing his hands on the door behind John, caging him in, Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "I know." He leaned forward, kissing John firmly.

As tempted as John was to pull Sherlock back into his apartment right now, with how good he looked and how well he kissed, he managed to duck under Sherlock's arm and tugged him towards the stairs. He wanted to see what Sherlock had in mind for the night.

…

It was a mild summer night, and John felt happy. Walking hand in hand down the street after a great meal, a date night like they had so many weekends the last few months. One of the few 'normal' things in their relationship.

They got back to Baker Street, and John still felt a thrill as they climbed the stairs. In the flat, Sherlock took off his suit jacket and laid it the back of a chair. John did the same, and loosened the tie around his neck. But before they could undress any further, Sherlock shoved a folded blanket into John's arms and scooped up a bottle of wine and two glasses. He smirked a little as he led them up the stairs in the hallway.

"Another surprise?" John asked as they stepped out on to the roof. The beds of clover were well established now, dense mats of low greenery, with occasional small white flowers.

Sherlock's eyes seemed almost aqua in the setting sunlight, gleaming as he tugged John over to a corner of the roof. It reminded him of that day a few months before, the emotions of that day still fresh in his mind. Sherlock set down the bottle and glasses, and took the blanket from John to spread out on the roof.

Grabbing John's shoulders, Sherlock leaned in the give him a light kiss, and then spun him around, hugging him from behind. "What do you think?"

Turning his head to glare playfully at Sherlock, John looked around them, and saw a plain wooden box, about a meter high. As he watched, a bee landed on the side of it, and crawled into a hole on the side.

"A bee hive? You put a bee hive up here?" John chuckled, looking back at Sherlock.

Shrugging, Sherlock turned him to show him the others, one on each corner. "I like bees."

"So, you can harvest honey?"

"Clover honey." Sherlock nodded, and explained the parts of the hive, gesticulating enthusiastically. John could only smile, loving to see this side of Sherlock. Happy, enthused about a new project. Sharing his interests with John.

Eventually, Sherlock sat John down on the blanket and opened the wine. John took a sip, enjoying the rich full flavor as Sherlock shifted to sit beside him. The sun was just setting, giving them a beautiful free show.

He turned to smile at Sherlock, only to find him already watching him closely. "What…? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Sherlock's sharp eyes scanned over John's face, one of his more assessing looks. After a moment of quiet contemplation, he nodded to himself. "You seem a little distracted tonight. Like at dinner, we were discussing Paolo's family, and you didn't say much. Is something upsetting you?"

John shook his head. "No, no… not at all. I'm glad that there has been a positive result from everything. I admire your efforts, getting them all in for testing and treatment."

"I'm sensing a 'but'…"

Finishing off his wine, John set the glass down carefully. "Perhaps I was distracted during dinner, but it wasn't about Paolo's family." He paused, wondering if he should really bring up what had been on his mind. But it wasn't something that would go away.

"Francesca and Janine were asking me about how things are going…" John started, nerves making it hard to hold Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. "Oh, you want to talk about 'us'. The 'relationship'." And he looked just as nervous as John felt. "You said we could make our own rules. Are they working for you?"

John nodded, reaching out to rest a comforting hand on Sherlock's arm. "Yes, yes…so well. But…do you think we should move in together?"

Dropping his gaze to John's hand on his arm, Sherlock was very still. John could tell he was processing things. He was still new to relationships, and felt out of his depth at times. He finally looked back at John, his expression probing. "Do you want that, John?"

Chuckling a little weakly, John tried to lessen the tension between them. "Um…I asked you first." _Oh, great answer. Very mature._

Sherlock tipped his glass, drinking the pricey wine far too fast. He put his glass down as he turned to look out at the view. "The last few months have been incredible…"

John nodded. "Yes, I agree. We both have crazy schedules, and I'm surprised that we are able to see each other as much as we do."

Sherlock looked a little alarmed at that comment. "Are you saying I'm coming over to your place too much?"

Turning towards Sherlock, John grabbed his hand. "No! I love that you come over so often. I know it's because you truly want to be there, not just from obligation."

"I sleep best beside you these days. And these Saturday nights…" Sherlock started.

John gave a half-smile. "Come on, Sherlock. You hate these 'date nights'. It's too… I don't know…too 'regimented' for you, isn't it?"

After taking a deep breath, Sherlock just shook his head slowly. "I suck at relationships, John, but even I could tell you needed something stable to counterbalance how erratic I am. I can't commit to working a regular schedule and eating dinner with you most nights, but Saturdays are yours."

"You don't mind the potlucks?" John asked. They had alternated making plans each week, and John had taken him to a few building gatherings.

Sherlock gave a rueful smile. "I want to know your friends, since they really are your family. You know mine…Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade..."

John felt good that they were taking the time to discuss everything. To make sure they were still on the same page. "So…you agree we should keep things as they are? Not move in together?"

"I love the way things are, John. I love…you." Sherlock said, his tone soft.

The breath caught in John's throat at that, completely shocked at the words he had never thought he would hear back from Sherlock. He had come to accept him as he was, never pushing him for more than he gave freely. Knowing he wasn't a conventional choice, and loving him unconditionally for who he really was.

"I love you too, Sherlock. More than ever." John finally whispered back, his heart pounding as Sherlock leaned closer for a soft kiss.

Those sweet words echoed in John's head as the kiss deepened, Sherlock hugging him tight, pulling him closer. Lost in a world that just had the two of them.

Only drops of water hitting John's face finally pulled him out of it. He looked around, and it was a little darker out now. The wind had picked up, and it was starting to rain. A storm was coming in.

"We better go inside." John said regretfully. Their romantic interlude on the roof would have to be some other night.

Sherlock tilted his face up towards the sky, raindrops falling on his skin and running downwards. He turned back to John with a playful grin. "Says who?"

John laughed, and tackled Sherlock, unbuttoning his shirt as the rain dampened it. The storm picked up, and he traced the trails of raindrops over his chest.

Sitting up, Sherlock pushed his wet curls back from his face, and worked on John's buttons. Soon, their shirts were off and trousers undone, kissing while hands went everywhere. John arched up against Sherlock, finding his wet bare skin deliciously slick, and Sherlock echoed his rhythm with a moan.

A few minutes later, they were both lying on their backs, panting, as the rain kept up its deluge, washing them clean, drenching everything.

Chuckling, John finally got up and found his shirt in a sodden pile, a steady dribble coming off it when he picked it up. Sherlock did up his trousers, and lifted up their soaked blanket, wringing out most of the water.

He grinned over to John with a shrug. "Wanna jump into a hot shower?"

Picking up the wine bottle and glasses, John raced towards the door and down the steps, trying hard not to slip on the way. Sherlock was right behind him, his long legs making up the distance easily.

John put the wine on the kitchen table, laughing when Sherlock came through the doorway, already yanking his wet trousers down and kicking them off. He stripped as he went to the bathroom, and was soon under the hot spray with Sherlock.

…

Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door. "Sherlock! You left water all over the steps! Someone could slip and really hurt themselves!" Mrs. Hudson chided through the door.

There was no answer, and she turned the doorknob, opening it slightly to peer around the corner. Her eyes quickly saw the wet blanket and clothes thrown everywhere, and heard the shower running behind the closed bathroom door. Shaking her head, she closed the door with a sigh, a small smile on her face.

…

A/N: Thanks so much for reading this odd AU of mine! It's been fun imagining what the future could be like in thirty years or so, within our lifetimes. There have been some stories in the news lately that reminded me of issues that came up in the story, like how doping was handled at the February 2018 Winter Olympics, live Virtual Reality for 30 olympic events, and the water crisis in Cape Town. More info below...

-Frida Kahlo's house: Frida (1907-1954) was "a Mexican artist who painted many portraits, self-portraits, and works inspired by the nature and artifacts of Mexico. Inspired by the country's popular culture, she employed a naïve folk art style to explore questions of identity, postcolonialism, gender, class, and race in Mexican society. Her paintings often had strong autobiographical elements and mixed realism with fantasy... Kahlo was also interested in politics, and in 1927 joined the Mexican Communist Party. Through the Party she met the celebrated muralist Diego Rivera. They were married in 1928, and remained a couple until Kahlo's death. The relationship was volatile due to both having extramarital affairs; and while they divorced in 1939, they remarried the following year." (Wikipedia) From 1934-1939, they moved into a house in Mexico City made up of two smooth concrete blocks, independent of one another and linked by a narrow bridge that joins the rooftops. A block is red and represents Diego. The other is blue, representing Frida. The bridge that unites them is the bond of love between them. The bohemian residence became an important meeting place for artists and political activists from Mexico and abroad, including former Soviet leader Leon Trotsky.

-Virtual Reality at Winter Olympics 2018: Intel produced the VR version of the Olympics in partnership with Olympics Broadcast Service (OBS), and then distributed 360-degree videos to 10 broadcast partners around the world, including NBC in the USA. Over 50 hours of the Olympics showed live virtual reality of 30 events, including the Opening Ceremony. 'To make these more unique, Intel gave viewers the ability to switch seats in mid-broadcast and watch competitions from different angles, and in some cases also find perspectives that aren't available to viewers on TV, or even at the event, said Aufhauser. "We want to have our cameras in places that the audience can't go." '.

-Russian Athletes at Winter Olympics 2018: Wikipedia: 'On 5 December 2017, the IOC announced that the Russian Olympic Committee had been suspended from the 2018 Winter Olympics with immediate effect. Athletes who had no previous drug violations and a consistent history of drug testing were to be allowed to compete under the Olympic Flag as an "Olympic Athlete from Russia" (OAR). Under the terms of the decree, Russian government officials were barred from the Games, and neither the country's flag nor anthem would be present (the Olympic Flag and Olympic Anthem would be used instead).' This was from World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA) reports in previous years that the RUSADA, the Ministry of Sport, the Federal Security Service (FSB) and the Centre of Sports Preparation of the National Teams of Russia had "operated for the protection of doped Russian athletes" within a "state-directed failsafe system". "Due to doping violations, Russia has been stripped of 41 Olympic medals – the most of any country, four times the number of the runner-up, and more than a third of the global total."

-Cape Town Water Crisis: A drought began in 2015, resulting in a severe water shortage, and April 2018 was the initial prediction for Day Zero when municipal water supply will be gone. They have been able to reduce their water consumption by more than half, and have pushed Day Zero to 2019 now, but many residents are ignoring volunteer water restrictions. The city is prepping 200 emergency water stations outside groceries and other gathering sports, each serving about 20,000 residents. Already, there are water-theft patrols at natural springs where fights have been breaking out, and crack downs on people gouging with inflated prices for bottled water. Similar water shortages have occurred in Mexico City, Melbourne, Jakarta and Sao Paulo.


End file.
